


Dead Air

by TechnicolorVocab01



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Muteness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Hank Anderson, Sign Language, Takes place during the events of the game, connor has feelings (tm) but doesn't know how to deal with them, eventually, mute!connor, you fucked up a perfectly good android is what you did look at it its got anxiety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-08-05 08:10:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 37,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16364123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TechnicolorVocab01/pseuds/TechnicolorVocab01
Summary: "'I haven't heard a fucking word from you this whole time," Hank said through gritted teeth. "What, something scrambled in your servers?"The silence Hank got in response pushed a new theory to the forefront."Can you even talk?"Brown eyes snapped towards Hank. The android’s face twitched, momentarily, before smoothing into something more neutral.Hank gawked at the passenger in disbelief. "You seriously can’t speak."It shook its head, a couple of tiny jerks, before fixing its eyes back towards the dash.Jesus fuck, that was useless. Of all things, why would CyberLife send in a broken android to assist with this case? And why did Hank, of all people, have to be the one to deal with it?





	1. Call Letters

Hank made the mistake of glancing up, once, before immediately redirecting his focus back onto the half-empty glass in front of him. He hoped the plastic asshole standing to his right would finally take the hint and fuck off.

The whole point of choosing Jimmy’s Bar for a drink was so that Hank _didn’t_ have to look at androids. Nowadays, it seemed every other face was plastic. Emotionless. Creepy, kind of like standing silently two feet away from someone for five minutes straight. Jesus. Hank finished his drink and slammed his glass on the bar with a loud _clank_ before whipping his head towards the intruder.

“ _What_ _?_   What the fuck do you want?”

The android didn’t answer. Instead, it gestured at the file sitting between them on the bar and gave Hank a pointed look. Like _it_ was the one that should be annoyed at the situation. Hank scoffed and opened the file, flicking through the familiar papers. It was the case Captain Fowler had assigned him earlier in the evening-- a man named Carlos Ortiz had been murdered, probably by his own android. Hank was avoiding the case for a reason. Fowler knew he didn’t want anything to do with androids, and Hank would gladly take another paragraph in his disciplinary novel if it meant avoiding anything having to do with the things.

He closed the file and pushed it towards the android, who was standing still with its hands at its sides. “Yeah, thanks, but I’m not interested. So just be a good little robot and get the fuck out of here.”

The android’s eyebrows furrowed, like it wasn’t expecting Hank’s answer. It pushed the file back towards him, eyebrows raised, expression clearly meant to convey its insistence. Gritting his teeth, Hank grabbed the file and shoved it into the android’s chest, not bothering to react when a few of the file’s contents spilled out and onto the floor. The robot took a moment to bend down and pick the file’s contents from the floor, completely unbothered by Hank’s pointed rudeness. It placed the file on the counter further away from Hank before straightening it’s tie and sitting at the barstool next to him. Hank groaned in disgust when its face twisted into a plastic imitation of a smile, only to cut the noise off when the android slid a couple of bills towards the bartender. Looking back at Hank, it nodded its head towards the bar. Well, if the android was willing to by his drinks, maybe it was worth something.

“Jim, same again. Double.”

Hank downed the new glass in one gulp, letting the alcohol soothe his irritation. He sniffed, considered the file and the silent android for a moment, then decided that maybe he had of Jimmy's for one night. Reaching past the android, Hank grabbed the file and flicked through the pages once more.

"A homicide, huh..."

* * *

 

That’s how Hank found himself in his car with an android in the passenger seat. Normally, he wouldn’t let any android within a ten foot radius, and his irritation at its existence was starting to grow once more. It continued to say absolutely nothing, passing a coin rapidly between its hands. The coin rang each time it collided with plastic fingers, the only sound filling the silence of the car. The metallic clinging grated at Hank’s ears, causing the corners of his lips to twist downward.

_Cling. Cling. Cling._

Finally, Hank’s irritation hit its peak, boiling over like hot water.

“Would you _stop it_ with the fucking coin already?”

The android’s brown eyes darted towards Hank as it pocketed the coin obediently. It fixed a neutral gaze out the windshield, posture ramrod straight and hands folded in its lap. The silence ticked on for a few more beats until it started verging on painful, and Hank began to regret pushing off repairing his radio. Nothing like some Death Metal to clear the air.

Where Hank got uncomfortable, he also tended to get aggravated. And words said in anger came a lot easier to him than any other kind. "What?" Hank asked tightly. "Don't have anything to say?"

The android didn’t reply. It gave no indication it had even heard Hank as it continued to stare ahead like Detroit’s scenery was the most fascinating thing it’d ever seen.

“CyberLife finally realize androids are _fucking annoying?_ ”

That got a slight reaction. The android’s eyes flicked downward, mouth tugging slightly at the edges. Still nothing.

"I haven't heard a fucking word from you this whole time," Hank said through gritted teeth. "What, something scrambled in your servers?"

The silence Hank got in response pushed a new theory to the forefront.

“Can you even talk?”

Brown eyes snapped towards Hank. The android’s face twitched, momentarily, before smoothing into something more neutral.

Hank gawked at the passenger in disbelief. “You seriously can’t speak.”

It shook its head, a couple of tiny jerks, before fixing its eyes back towards the dash.

Jesus fuck, that was useless. Of all things, why would CyberLife send in a broken android to assist with this case? And why did Hank, of all people, have to be the one to deal with it?

He knew the android was meant to accompany him on the Ortiz case-- it was in the case file. What wasn’t in the case file was the android’s apparent malfunction, one that would keep it from communicating anything about the homicide. The whole _point_ of androids was the fact that they were perfect machines, capable of doing anything humans can, but better and more efficiently. Hank couldn't see this one doing much more than taking up space. It was ironic, in a frustrating sort of way.

The flashing of blue and red police lights indicated their arrival to the crime scene; in the darkness of the evening the colors were almost blinding. As Hank squinted for a moment to adjust, the android just stared placidly ahead, unbothered. Hank didn't think there was anything creepier than something so human-like doing something that was the opposite. Hank killed the engine and pocketed his keys before turning to the android.

He said pointedly, “You. Stay here. I don’t need assistance and I sure as hell don’t need it from a broken machine.”

The android gazed at him for a moment, probably running through algorithms or equations or some shit behind that spiraling, yellow LED, before turning to the car door and gripping the handle.

" _Hey_ ," Hank told him, snapping his fingers like he sometimes did with Sumo until the android turned back around to watch him. "Don't ignore me. Just wait here-- I won't be long."

It paused, seeming to consider. Finally, it's LED shifted back into a calm blue and it removed its grip from the handle to his lap and sat up straight, like it was returning to resting position. Fucking creepy. Satisfied that it understood the order, Hank opened the car door and made his way towards the house of Carlos Ortiz.

Stepping through the holographic police tape and past the PC200 auxiliary android, Hank stopped in front of Officer Chris Miller.

“Glad to see you decided to make it.” Chris offered Hank a smile, which Hank did not offer back. The fuck did he have to smile about?

“Yeah yeah, just-”

Hank was interrupted by the voice of the PC200. “Androids are not permitted beyond this point.”

Hank cursed under his breath and closed his eyes, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was. But what other android could it be but the broken one he rode there with, being held back by the PC200. It swung big, pleading eyes to Hank, and what was CyberLife thinking with this model? Let's take the least threatening image we have and make it into a detective? Fuck.

“It’s with me,” Hank called out. The PC200 released its hold on the other android, moving back to its default stance. The broken one adjusted its tie before moving towards Hank, its lips turned up in an imitation of gratitude. Hank was less pleased.

“What part of stay in the car don’t you understand?”

The android gestured towards the house before pointing at the _RK800_ stamped on its jacket. Hank sighed.

“Whatever. Just don’t talk-” Hank corrected himself quickly. “-touch anything. And stay out of my way, got it?”

The RK800 nodded once.

* * *

 

“Urgh, Jesus!  _What the hell are you doing?_ ”

Hank should have known better than to trust this specific android to fucking listen to him, especially after the fiasco outside. So far, the android had touched almost every inch of the crime scene, going as far as to _put its fingers on a bloody knife and lick them_. Ugh. Hank was starting to think more than just its voice was broken.

The RK800 furrowed its eyebrows and had the decency to arrange its expression into something apologetic. It straightened up and moved towards the kitchen, stopping in front of the bat on the floor. After reviewing the evidence, Hank felt as though he had a pretty decent handle on what went down during the homicide. Even so, he had always found talking through the evidence beneficial to finding holes and filling out gaps in his theories. Looking around for Chris or Detective Collins, Hank realized he was the only one currently not outside looking for footprints. Well, except for the android. Hank figured that would probably work, it was supposed to be a police assistant after all. He turned to the android and called out to it.

“Hey, uh--” Hank stopped as it occurred to him that would be strange, and kind of annoying, to just keep calling it “android” or “robot”, and asked instead, “Listen, do you have a name I can call you or…?”

The android jerked up from where it was kneeling by the bat. It nodded quickly, before pausing in thought. After a moment, it pointed at Hank, tapped its head, and moved both of its hands in a flurrying gesture.

“Is that… Sign language?”

It nodded, looking at Hank expectantly.

He stared for a moment. This might turn out to be more trouble than it's worth.

"I don't know that."

It bobbed its head once, like it expected that outcome. Turning towards the drawers in the kitchen, it began to open each one, but whatever it was looking for, it didn't find it. Closing the last drawer, it approached Hank, who was starting to get impatient. It brought a hand up to its ear, fist mostly closed with its thumb and pinky out. It wanted to see Hank’s phone.

Patting at his pockets, Hank realized he must have left his phone at the station before leaving for Jimmy’s Bar. He told the android as much.

It threw its head back in a surprisingly human show of frustration, running hands back through its hair to smooth it over, before going rigid and turning its eyes down. The LED in its head turned yellow for another moment, just before the android looked up and grabbed at the Lieutenant's hand.

“Hey, what the fuck!” Hank jerked his hand out of the android’s grip and leveled a glare its way. It simply held its hand out, looking up with those dumb, pleading eyes. Hank sighed as gustily and as drawn out as possible to convey his own frustration in his own _human_ way. Fuck. He _was_ the one who asked. Hank offered his hand back, glancing around to make sure none of the other officers saw what was probably a pretty strange interaction, but they were still the only ones currently in the house. The android placed Hank’s hand flat, palm up, on its own. It used its other hand to trace out a curved line into the Lieutenant’s palm before looking up expectantly.

“C.”

The android _beamed_. Hank almost didn’t see it, as its expression almost immediately smoothed into something more serious. Hank chose not to dwell on it. The android continued to trace letters into his palm. O. N. N. O. R.

“Your name’s Connor?”

The android-- Connor-- nodded once.

"Alright," Hank huffed, relieved that it was over. If communicating was going to be this drawn out between them all the time, this partnership might be even more high maintenance than he originally thought. "I wanted to go over what I think happened here."

Connor listened patiently as Hank explained the evidence. Even as he talked, though, it moved back towards the bat in an aimless sort of way. It regarded the item for a moment before sliding its eyes across the floor. Without looking up, Connor wandered away from the kitchen and towards the hallway. At that point, Hank had trailed off slightly.

“-and after that, we assume it fled out the back door…are you even listening, Connor?”

Connor jerked its head up and nodded at the Lieutenant from where it was standing at the end of the hall.

“Good. As I was saying-”

Connor nudged past him and made its way back to the kitchen, snatching one of the wooden chairs from the table, then moving back towards the hall. This was all done with a robotic sort of decisiveness that, when seen in action, just seemed random. So as Connor tried to push past Hank again, the Lieutenant stopped it with one arm out.

“What are you doing? Didn’t I tell you not to touch anything?" After everything else the android had done tonight, Hank wondered why he bothered saying anything at all.

Connor ducked under Hank's arm and set the chair down at the end of the hallway. When Hank walked over, the android pointed urgently to the ceiling, and Hank immediately put together why the chair was so carefully placed right under the scuttle door to the attic.

“You think it’s still in the house.”

Connor nodded and moved to climb up the chair. Pushing the scuttle door out of its way, Connor climbed into the attic.

“Look Connor, Ortiz’s been dead for more than two weeks. There’s no way the suspect hasn’t fled the scene by now.”

Even so, Hank stepped onto the kitchen chair. One of the legs wobbled a bit, but he managed to keep his balance long enough to grip the edge of the attic’s entrance. Pulling himself up was a new challenge, one that Connor managed to make look easy. As it was, Hank barely managed to flop his way into the dusty attic. Brushing dirt off his jeans, Hank began to straighten up before he froze.

“Holy shit.”

Connor was standing a few feet away from Hank, facing another android, one with crimson-stained clothes and violently shaking hands coated in dried blood, its LED the same deep red color.

“ _Please!_ He was going to kill me, I was just defending myself-”

Breaking out of of his momentary shock, the Lieutenant called out for Officer Miller and Detective Collins. Even as Hank kept one eye on the hysterical android, he couldn't really bring himself to believe that it would actually try anything. Don't ask him why. It couldn't have had anything to do with how its head bowed in something like defeat and its eyes went cracked and broken. Nothing like that.

As the others arrested the suspect, Hank turned to Connor. He knew he was only imagining the android’s smug expression, but it still made something unpleasant settle in his gut.

Because Connor had been right. It had been useful. And that meant Hank would have to keep working with the android.


	2. Closed Circuit

“We’re wasting our time interrogating a machine. _We’re getting nothing out of it_.”

Hank jerked the metal chair harshly across the floor, metal scraping against concrete. He flopped into the seat, crossing his arms and letting his exhaustion weigh heavy on his shoulders. Failing to grill what was essentially a toaster was just icing on the shitty cake that was Hank’s night so far.

“We could always try roughing it up a little.” Gavin Reed spoke up from his corner of the room. “After all, it’s not human.”

Hank didn’t bother gracing that genius plan with a response-- androids didn’t feel pain. It wasn’t lost on Hank either that the mutual dislike the two detectives shared for the machines was the only thing keeping the Detroit Police Station from turning into a fight club, what with Hank’s short temper and Gavin’s general jackassery. The two of them could agree that androids sucked ass, but Hank found the other detective’s attitude wholly unhelpful in this moment.

Hank’s thoughts were interrupted by something tapping at his shoulder. With a weary sigh, he angled his head to look back at Connor, who had been standing idle and rigid since they began the interrogation. It pointed once at its chest, and once at the blood-caked android slumped past the glass of the one-way mirror.

Hank blinked once, slowly, apprehension making him pause before slowly saying “You want to try… questioning it.”

It nodded.

“That isn’t exactly _within your capabilities,_ Connor.” Hank turned back to face the glass, tacking on an insincere, “No offense.”

Gavin barked out an ugly laugh from his corner of the small room, but didn’t offer up any more commentary, which Hank was thankful for.

Instead of backing off, the android put a hand on Hank’s shoulder, moving swiftly around the chair to face him and _again with the fucking eyes_. Hank let out a drawn out, long-suffering sigh. It was late, the booze from Jimmy’s was filtering out of his system, and all he wanted to do was go home and pass out until noon the next day.

Hank took one final look at the occupants of the room. Gavin, who was clearly turned to keep both androids out of his line of sight, Chris, who stood expectantly by the door, and finally back to Connor.

“What do we have to lose?” Hank said, resigned, with a motion towards the door.

Connor straightened to move out the room, face clicking back to neutral. Hank was well aware the android only let itself emote to get what it wanted from him, but he was too tired to care at that moment. As soon as Connor entered the interrogation room, however, Hank found himself curious as to the android’s approach. He shifted to lean forward in his seat.

The RK800 took its time circling the small room. Flicking through the case file, investigating the security camera, glancing at the one-way mirror. If Hank didn’t know any better, he would have said Connor was stalling for time, trying to think of a plan. But after the events of that night, he was pretty sure the thing was just glitchy as hell. Finally satisfied with its stroll through the room, Connor pulled out the chair opposite the suspect and sat with a single, smooth motion. Hank watched as it leaned forward, hands folded on the metal table.

From where the three onlookers were positioned, the suspect’s LED was hidden from view, only Connor’s was clearly visible. In one moment, it shifted from a steady blue to a rapidly blinking yellow. The two androids proceeded to blink at each other in time with the flashing light. The sight was strange, completely uncanny and deeply unsettling.

“What the  _fuck_ is it doing now?” Hank asked as the androids continued to twitch in the other room. Chris starred in morbid fascination, eyes wide and brows lowered. Gavin’s face was twisted in an open-mouthed grimace. The three of them startled when Connor broke its posture to grab the case file and slam it into the table, the sound ringing through the room like a gunshot. After a moment, it leaned back, calmly nodding its head towards the mirror. The trembling suspect turned its wild, shifting eyes towards the glass.

Gavin uncrossed his arms and took an automatic step back. “Those things can’t see us, right?”

Connor’s LED shifted back to the default blue as Ortiz’s android slowly turned its head back to its cuffed hands, body still shifting with each sporadic twitch of its frame. There was a beat, and then--

“He tortured me everyday…”

Hank couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A quiet, “Holy shit,” escaped his lips as he stood, slowly, watching the suspect confess to an avid, but still silent Connor.

Chris was the next to speak. “Did it just… use Jedi mind control?”

“You know this means that thing is totally stealing all three of our jobs, right?” Came Gavin’s mumbled response.

Unease curled through the Lieutenant like a snake, taking in the detective’s words. Connor hadn’t assisted the humans in the investigation. Connor succeeded in the investigation _despite_ human involvement. A glitchy, broken prototype proved tonight, twice over, that Cyberlife could replace humans on the force with laughable ease. What would happen once the model’s kinks were smoothed out? Once the full, updated version of Connor was mass produced and handed out to every district in Detroit? As Chris and Gavin moved to drag Ortiz’s android to it’s cell, Hank's unease quickly and seamlessly turned into vapid disgust. When the RK800 turned to offer Hank a small, _infuriatingly plastic_ smile, he answered it with a downturned scowl.

* * *

 

Despite his shift starting at nine in the morning, Hank kept his promise to himself that he would sleep in after the mayhem of last night. It was ten by the time he pried his eyes open, shoving the massive pile of fluff he called a dog off of his frame, and nearly eleven by the time he dragged his feet into the station, nursing a headache and preparing for the lecture Captain Fowler probably had planned. He paused at the base of Fowler’s office, mouth pulling into a tired frown when he saw the Plastic Prick itself was already inside. Part of him hoped the android had been a booze-induced nightmare, but its presence in the morning’s clarity chucked that dream right out the window.

Five minutes later, Hank found himself in a screaming match with the captain. No way was he partnering up with a _fucking android_ , to solve cases about other _fucking androids_. God, just three hours with the thing was enough to shave a good seven years off his life.

“ _Bullshit_ _!_ The truth is nobody else wants to investigate the fucking things and _you left me holding the bag_ \--”

“I’ve had just about _enough_ of your _bitching,_ Hank! _”_

Through the whole argument, Hank could feel the android’s presence burning behind his back. He didn’t bother glancing back, he knew he would just see perfect posture and a smooth, unbothered expression.

Desperate, Hank changed his tone to something more strained and pleading. “Jeffrey, Jesus Christ, why are you _doing_ this to me? You know I hate these fucking things, this one isn’t even working right-”

Fowler held up a hand, face dark and tinted red with rage; Hank wished he could say that it was an unfamiliar expression, but that would make him a liar. Fowler gritted out, “I don’t want to hear another word about this. Shut up and do your job, if you want to complain about the fucking android? Complain to CyberLife because _I don’t want to hear it_.”

Anger bubbled hot in Hanks chest, vision turning white at the edges. With a strained grunt, he wrenched the office door open and made a point of not closing it, because he was a fucking adult capable of resisting the urge to just slam it with all the force of his rage. No matter how damn hard it was. He stalked his way towards his desk, crossing his arms and falling bodily into the chair. A soft click from the direction of Fowler’s office tipped Hank off to the fact that the android had exited, and was probably on his way over to his desk.

_Ping! Ping!_

Hank looked to his left, grabbing at the phone on his desk. In his haste to get home the previous night, he forgot to pick up the phone from where he left it during his shift. It must have been on his desk all morning. Clicking the power button and unlocking the phone, Hank saw two unread messages from an unknown number. Soft footsteps clicked behind him, but he ignored the android in favor of checking on the texts.

_ > Hello Lieutenant! It’s me, Connor. _

_ >The android sent by CyberLife. _

Hank groaned, finally swiveling his chair to face the android standing patiently in front of his desk. It stood straight and stiff, a disarming smile on its plastic features.

“How the fuck did you get my number?”

_Ping!_

_ >Your phone was sitting on your desk and you were late. I hope you don’t mind, I think being able to communicate properly will aid in the investigation. _

Hank frowned; Connor clearly wasn’t holding a phone of its own. “How are you doing that?”

_Ping!_

_ >All androids have the capability to send texts and make calls wirelessly. _

Of course they did.

Hank acknowledged the text with a grunt before placing his phone back on his desk. Although the anger from his argument with Fowler was starting to cool off, he still wasn’t in the mood to interact with the android any more than he absolutely had to.

_Ping!_

His phone lit up with the text notification.

_ >I get that my presence causes you some inconvenience. I’d like you to know I’m very s- _

Hank deleted the notification with a swipe.

_Ping!_

_ >Now that we’re partners- _

Hank didn’t even read through the whole notification before deleting it. Jesus, could this thing not take a hint? He leveled a glare the android’s way, not faltering even when its smile fell, brows lowering and jaw clenched in what came off as irritation. Hank knows he’s projecting when he blinks and its face is neutral again.

_Ping!_

“Ah, Jesus, what now?”

  _> Is there a desk I could use?_

Hank lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders. If Connor could keep their interactions like this, down to only what was necessary, maybe Hank would survive this assignment with minimal bloodshed.

Hank is tempted to send Connor to a desk on the other side of the room, but stops when he realizes that could drag things out needlessly. He would rather the whole investigation go by as quickly as possible-- the less time he spent dealing with androids, the better.

“No one’s using that one.” Hank points to the desk facing his.

Connor nods once, politely, before moving towards the desk and sitting down in a single, robotic motion. The two of them sit silently for a moment, scrolling through android-related case files on their respective desktops. _PJ500. ST300. WR400. PL600. AX400. Assault. Missing. Murder. Assault. Assault. Assault--_

_Ping!_

Hank huffs briefly in frustration, but figures ignoring the android would only serve to drag their interactions out. He opens the chat.

_ >You have a dog, right? _

Hank’s eyes flicker to Connor, who is waiting politely for a response. Hank doesn’t remember mentioning Sumo around the android, and he feels his apprehension towards the android grow.

“How did you know that?” he grounds out. Connor nods his head towards a point past Hank.

_ >The dog hairs on your chair. _

Hank feels himself relax. At least it didn’t get the info from like, scanning his face or whatever.

_ >I like dogs. _

_ >What’s your dog’s name? _

Hank’s first instinct is to snap at the android-- he’d rather chew glass than engage in small talk with the thing. But looking at the android, Hank sees its surprisingly expressive eyes and the way it leans forward, just a little, waiting patiently for Hank’s answer. With his dog brought to the front of his mind, Hank felt his irritation ebb, and decided to humor the android just once.

“Sumo. His name’s Sumo.”

Connor seemed satisfied with the answer. A small, pleased smile settled on its face as it turned back to the screen in front of it. Hank did likewise. Glancing up after a few moments, Hank was surprised to see the expression hadn’t yet defaulted to neutral, even without anyone to manipulate.

Hank’s phone lit up once more. The android, apparently emboldened by its brief success, attempted to start another conversation.

_ >You’re a Detroit Gears fan, right? Denton Carter scored 53% of his shots from the three-point line yesterday. Did you see the game? _

Any points Connor scored asking about Sumo evaporated when Hank read the text. It was nothing but facts, listed mechanically from some database in its head, reminding Hank that he was dealing with the social protocols of a machine and not actually having a conversation.

“That’s what I was watching last night. _At the bar_.”

Hank ignored the way Connor slumped in its seat and returned to his work.

None of the deviancy cases had much in common. Different crimes, different models, different locations-

_Ping!_

Hank gripped his mouse so hard he thought it might crack.

_ >An AX400 is reported to have assaulted a man last night. That could be a good place to start. _

Hank silenced his phone and went back to pretending he was still immersed in case files on his desktop.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the android stand, swiftly making its way around the desks. Stopping at Hank’s left, it placed one hand on the back of his chair and used the other to grab at his phone.

“ _Hey_ _!_ What do you think--”

It flicked at the lockscreen and shoved the phone in his nose.

  _> I didn’t come here to wait until you_ _feel like working._

Hank was boiling again, face hot with indignation. Patience snapped like a frayed wire and Hank was on his feet, grabbing at the android’s collar and slamming it roughly against the wall.

“Listen here asshole, if it were up to me, I’d throw the lot of you in a dumpster and set a match to it.” Connor grasped at its collar, face twisting, eyes narrowing and shining under the fluorescent lighting of the DPD.

 _“_ So stop _pissing me off_ …”

Hank trailed off as Connor’s lips began to move, as if it were trying to speak. Instead of words, a breathy, whispering sound escaped the android’s mouth, like blowing air through a straw. Every couple of seconds, it was punctuated by the sound of plastic on plastic, a brief _click click click_ from deep in the android’s throat _._

_Wssh. Wssh. Click click click._

“Lieutenant,” Hank heard Chris call out tentatively, from somewhere behind him. “Sorry to disturb you.”

Hank dropped the android like its CyberLife-issued suit jacket burned him.

“I have some info on the AX400 that attacked a guy last night.” Hank turned towards Chris, carefully keeping his eyes from seeing the android’s expression. “It’s been seen in the Ravendale District…”

Hank could feel dread pool in his stomach; he would have to work with the android if he wanted to keep his job. He would have to chase after the machines, too. Hank almost couldn’t wait for the day he was replaced by the damn things-- at least then he could stay home and pretend they didn’t exist.

“I’m on it.” Hank marched past Chris, not turning to see if Connor was following. He ruthlessly squashed down the heavy feeling weighing uncomfortably at his gut. There was no way he would feel guilt for a machine. No way in hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, Gavin's an idiot and doesn’t even realize Connor physically cannot speak. He just assumes he’s a plastic weirdo that’s ignoring him ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. Phase Shift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I wanted to thank everyone who's been leaving comments on this. Sorry I haven't replied, I'm shy lol.  
> But I'll make sure to answer some now. Thanks again for reading!

Connor pushed his tie up his neck once more from where he was seated in the passenger side of Hank’s beat-up old car. **_Investigate deviant AX400_** _[ONGOING]_ was stamped at the top of his tasklist, calling for his undivided attention; but he found his eyes wandering, scanners picking up on the detail of Hank’s car.

**_Scanning…_ ** _1988 Supreme Brougham_.

Connor’s tie was still too loose, and he tugged at the knot until it pressed almost too tightly against his neck.

Heavy metal blasted from the phone perched on the dash between him and Lieutenant Anderson. Connor’s social databases took the music as a sign Hank wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

**_Scanning…_ ** _Knights of the Black Death- release date 2021. iPhone 2X3- release date 2033._

Connor had told Amanda he would alter his behavior to suit the Lieutenant’s personality. His entire model was designed with adaptation in mind; the ability to switch mindsets at a moment’s notice in order to get the most successful results from any given circumstance. He could adapt to the deviants’ mindset to get information, he could adapt to his current condition, and he could adapt to avoid conflict with the Lieutenant.

Maybe if his friendly, conversational approach wasn’t suited to Hank’s personality, Connor could try to keep communication open only for information regarding the mission in a strictly professional manner. He tried not to dwell on the flippant disregard Hank seemed to have towards his job; on how his attitude could jeopardize Connor’s mission; on how the threat of failure hung over his head like the CyberLife Sans that prioritized his every move. Further down his tasklist, the objective **_Befriend Lieutenant Anderson_** _[FAILED]_ changed to **_Work successfully with Lieutenant Anderson_** _[ONGOING]_ to reflect Connor’s new approach.

The tie was still too loose. With jerking motions, Connor tugged at the collar of his jacket, pulling it up further. He could still feel a ghost of pressure where Lieutenant Anderson had grabbed his lapels, how his knuckles had dug into each side of Connor’s neck at the point just below the jawline.

As the car came to a stop, Lieutenant Anderson grabbed and silenced his phone with an overly aggressive finger jab, stepping out the driver door to greet Detective Collins. Taking his cue, Connor exited the car as well and stepped onto the sidewalk, rain rolling onto his synthetic skin and soaking through his hair. He considered following Hank, but instead opted to idle and wait for instructions. He saw flashes of DPD uniforms out of the corners of his eye and realized the street was crawling with officers. There was little chance the rogue AX400 hadn't noticed, assuming it was still there.

Connor thought back to the deviant from the night before, the one that murdered Carlos Ortiz. It hid in the attic for over two weeks, even though the most logical course of action would have been to flee the scene. Trying to apply logic to deviant behavior wouldn’t get him anywhere; they acted irrationally, based on errant code that mimicked emotion in a way that overwhelmed any previous reasoning.

Connor broke from his mental processing as Hank strolled up to face him, phone open to DPD files in his hand. The android felt it was a convenient time to review the information. Connor composed a message and sent it to the Lieutenant's phone.

_ >The deviant took the first bus it saw. Its decision to come here wasn’t planned. It was driven by fear. _

A dry huff came from the Lieutenant as he looked up to face Connor. “Androids don’t feel fear.”

_ >Deviants do. _

...Which was a gross oversimplification, but as Connor felt brevity was the key to avoiding further conflict with the Lieutenant, he didn’t elaborate.

“Well, that still doesn’t tell us where it went.”

The AX400 attacked its owner and immediately fled the scene. Not only that, but it took the first bus it saw, and rode it to the end of the line. These weren’t the actions of an android with a premeditated strategy. It was a deviant running purely on desperation and false emotion-- a dangerous combination in any human, much less in a powerful machine.

_ >It didn’t have a plan and it had nowhere to go. Maybe it didn’t go far. _

Upon reading the text, Lieutenant Anderson’s eyes drifted to a point somewhere above Connor’s head. “Maybe…”

Turning to follow his partner’s gaze, Connor caught sight of a dilapidated house across the police-infested road. Chain-link fence turned to wood halfway around the circumference of the lot, sheltering it from the commotion of the street. The squat was undeniably attractive for something on the run from prying eyes.

The Lieutenant was the first to start purposefully towards the structure, pocketing his phone and striding forward. Connor was close behind. The two of them came to a stop where the chain link fence went jagged and broken near the bottom, like something had forced its way through.

Kneeling down and rolling through the gap in the chain-links, Connor noticed traces of blue blood painting the sharp edges of the metal. Electricity hummed through his circuits-- that meant he was on the right track, and the realization propelled him to the porch with a purposeful stride. He shot the Lieutenant a quick update without looking back, instead making a new task on his list: **_Keep the Lieutenant updated_ ** _[Ongoing]_. The last thing Connor needed was his temporary partner and himself to be on different pages while trying to complete the investigation.

He leaned forward to peer through the boarded windows and saw nothing but darkness through the narrow panels of wood, and so Connor rounded the corner of the house and tried another window.

There. A figure stood beyond the wooden planks, back to the window, perfectly still with no sign of respiration. There was no doubt to Connor that he was looking at an android. He sent another quick text to Hank before moving swiftly towards the door and twisting the rusty knob.

His shoulders dropped and the tension left his body in a rush when he isn’t ultimately met with the sight of an AX400. Instead, a male android stood in the center of the small, ramshackle living room, with eyes downcast and hands clasped behind its back. It flinched slightly when the door clicked closed behind Connor, but it’s eyes remained glued to the floor. Connor sent an update to the Lieutenant.

Connor approached the android slowly, and he saw its frame was wracked by minute twitches. Its head jerked more prominently, skin rippling and stained blue where its face had sustained serious damage. Connor processed for a split second, then scanned the android more carefully; he wanted all the information before attempting to start a conversation.

The scan told him it was a WR600 model-- a gardener. The databases used the model’s serial number to supply Connor with the fact that this one had been reported missing several weeks ago. The android in front of him must have been deviant, and Connor considered apprehending it. However, his tasklist burns hot in his CPU and the notion evaporates. **_Locate the deviant AX400_ ** _[ONGOING]_.

Connor used the deviant’s serial number to reach out wirelessly, linking their two CPUs together to allow for conversation. The other android's yellow LED began to blank rapidly, and its twitching became more erratic as the connection went through. Connor noted that its stress levels jumped from 50 to 61. If the deviant were to self-destruct, Connor wouldn't get any information about the AX400. He grappled with his choices, but ultimately decided to lead with a reassuring approach instead of stressing the android further.

_Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you._

Hearing his own voice over the link, Connor felt his jaw clench outside of his command. He walked past the deviant to hide his momentary lapse in motor control, however slight, and took note of the dinner table set for three. Strange, as androids didn’t eat. The deviant’s stress levels went down to 45, and Connor knew his decision to reassure was the right one.

_I’m looking for an AX400. Have you seen it?_

_Ralph’s seen nobody._

The deviant-- Ralph-- answered too quickly, mousey voice shaking and harried over the line. Connor wandered back to the middle of the room, where a pair of pliers rested on a wooden side table. The perfect tool to cut through a wire fence. The android's stress levels rose once more.

When Connor sent out yet another update text, he found himself growing-- not anxious. No, androids could not feel fear or experience unease. But perhaps he was growing slightly apprehensive for the state of the mission. The deviant sharing the room with Connor was clearly unhinged, with shaking shoulders and wildly fluctuating stress levels, and there was likely at least one more deviant in the house. Without his partner, Connor was outnumbered if the other androids decided to attack. And with his update texts, Hank really should have arrived by now.

“Why are you with the humans?” Ralph spoke out loud from its place in the room, eyes snapping up to meet Connor's. The optics were wild and unfocused, jittery with nerves. It was-- admittedly unnerving to Connor as well. Why hadn't Lieutenant Anderson caught up yet?

Connor ignores it and continues to search the evidence in the house. _A pile of blankets, and a lit fire. Androids don’t need heat._

“Ralph doesn’t like humans.”

Connor finds himself thinking back to earlier that morning at the station. How the Lieutenant pointedly silenced his phone, how he ignored Connor's attempts to communicate in the only way the faulty, broken android could.

“Humans hurt Ralph.” The deviant angled its head, showing off melted plastic, glinting grotesque in the low light of the squat.

Hank must be ignoring Connor now, too. Putting Connor at risk, throwing the investigation because androids are so _fucking annoying_ \--

“Humans hurt you too.” The deviant lowered its head once more, and quietly added, “Ralph can tell.”

Connor severed the connection with a decisive mental click, moving to face the stairs as he jerked his tie tighter until it felt like the only thing holding him together. He closed his eyes as software instability set off a tremor in his hands that felt like it would eventually spread to rest of his body like a tectonic event and Connor could suddenly hear the sound of wires snapping as clearly as though it were still happening and _why_ would the Lieutenant choose to throw his own investigation--

_He wouldn’t_.

Connor stopped. He was a highly sophisticated piece of technology, and when the whole world was screaming a falsity disguised as truth into his face, he knew there was one thing he could trust to never lie. The evidence. And this evidence didn't line up. Lieutenant Anderson was a highly experienced, respected officer. As long as Connor had observed, Hank had only taken his investigations seriously. He may have dragged his feet to avoid them, but once he was involved? Hank put together the entirety of the Ortiz murder, without a built in scanner or real-time forensics lab. And he listened to Connor, despite his animosity. Lieutenant Anderson took his job seriously; he wouldn’t sabotage a police investigation just to be petty.

The android remembered Hank turned off his music to listen to Detective Collins. He must have forgotten to turn his notification sounds back on.

Connor forced the tension from his shoulders and stood up straight, unclasping his hands from his tie. Such a lapse in rational thinking was unacceptable for an advanced model as himself, and he carefully scrubbed the previous few seconds from his backup memory cloud. As long as he was careful not to slip again in the future, neither CyberLife nor Amanda needed to be informed of a few moments of malfunction.

Forcing his mind back to the mission, Connor noted the other android’s stress levels had jumped all the way to 92 while he had been working through his evidence. To amend this misstep, Connor decided the time for reassurance was over, and an idea formed in his mind. He noticed the stairs he stood next to had a small alcove underneath, covered in tarps. If Ralph was hiding other deviants, it stood to reason his stress levels would elevate as Connor approached their hiding spot.

When he crouched low to investigate underneath the stairs, three things happened all at once. “Where the fuck-- Connor, what are you doing?” Lieutenant Anderson bursts through the door as Ralph grabs Connor from behind, wrestling him away from the stairs and crying out, “Run, Kara!”

As Hank yelled for backup at the door and Ralph threw him towards the wall, Connor caught sight of two figures darting from the stairs and rushing to the back door of the house.

**_Scanning…_ ** _AX400 #579 102 694_

**_Scanning…_ ** _YK500 #319 576 328_

The Lieutenant rushed forwards, pulling at Ralph to wrestle him away from Connor. The moment he was free, he sprung up and rushed out the back door, splintering wood in his haste. He stopped only long enough to catch sight of the two deviants running down the sidewalk, dogging human officers whose reaction times couldn’t keep up with the machines. Like a bloodhound following a trail, Connor sprinted after the deviants at full speed, narrowly avoiding human obstacles and bumping a few shoulders.

An officer waved him around a corner and down an alley, where he watched the AX400 and its accomplice scale a fence separating the buildings from a highway. It was clinging to the YK500, holding it close in the mock image of a mother holding a child. There's a moment where their eyes meet, and Connor saw the false fear, the parody of protectiveness. Connor knew that deviants were only victims to stray code, that none of what he saw in the AX400's face was true emotion. He knew this. 

But in that moment, seeing the evidence of fear in the way the AX400 gripped the YK500 close behind it, in the way the YK500 looked up at him with big eyes, clutching at the AX's shirt... it didn't seem fake at all.

Heavy footsteps and ragged breathing signaled the Lieutenant’s arrival, and the spell breaks. The two deviants turned to run towards the highway, intending to cross in their desperation to escape.

“Oh fuck, that’s insane,” Hank wheezed out between breaths.

**_Capture the AX400_ ** _[ONGOING]._ Connor gripped the fence tighter and moved to pull himself up when he felt pressure come down on his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, _stop_ \--” Connor fought Hank for a moment, shrugging the Lieutenant’s hand from his shoulder. He couldn’t let the deviants get away, they were already across three lanes--

Hank grabbed his arm and _yanked_ , pulling Connor down to meet his eyes. “You are going to get yourself _killed_ ,” he grit out through his teeth. Connor’s tasklist pushed, urging him forward, telling him to ignore the Lieutenant and run into eight lanes of traffic--

But something in Hanks expression made him stop. The Lieutenant’s eyes were wide, and Connor let his shaking grip pull his feet back to the ground.

The android’s eyes pulled back to the deviants like a magnet. He watched as they narrowly managed to cross the last few lanes, claw-grip on the fence tightening and making his metal joints creak.

**_Capture the deviant AX400_ ** _[FAILED]_.

* * *

 

Hank dug into his burger, drowning the past few hours in cholesterol and Chicken Feed signature sauce. Connor was moping across the table, head bowed and eyes glazed in an expression that was best described as “kicked puppy”. Hank found the expression more than a little annoying; Connor wasn’t the one that would have to deal with paperwork of losing two entire fucking deviants.

The majority of Hank's time on their failed assignment was spent checking nooks and alcoves around the squat, which was before Hank finally noticed that his mechanical shadow had vanished. When he saw four unread messages from his partner, he knew his phone volume must have been turned off during the bulk of the investigation.

_ >There’s blue blood on the fence. Another android was here. _

_ >There is an android in the house. I’m going inside. _

_ >I’m in the house with a deviant that is not the AX400. You should come and take a look. _

_ >Lieutenant, I would prefer to have back up in this situation. Where are you? _

It was an honest mistake. Human error. But it had cost them the assignment. Hank wondered what would have happened if he read the texts any later, if Connor had chased the deviants to the highway alone.

A busted android and a mountain of paperwork, that’s what.

The Lieutenant shoveled a handful of fries into his mouth, doing his best to ignore the miserable face in front of him. Connor took failure about as well as Sumo took vet-prescribed medication. The android probably wasn’t used to being anything less than a perfect machine. And, to be fair, the record would have stayed unbroken if it weren’t for Hank. _Shit._

Hank made up his mind as he finished his burger, placing the phone in the center of the table where Connor could see.

“Fuck, alright, here’s the thing.” Hank pinched the bridge of his nose, mentally preparing for the blow to his pride. “I know I haven’t been the best… partner.”

Connor looked up slowly, eyes wide. Hank took this as encouragement to keep going.

“You’ve listened to my complaining all day, and you listened when I ordered you not to kill yourself on the highway, and, uh,” he gestured vaguely, betraying discomfort through his stilted delivery, “I haven’t really been…”

Confusion painted its way across Connor’s features, mouth drawn in a tight line and eyebrows furrowed up.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Hank sighed and reached for his phone, planting a finger on the volume button until it was all the way up. “I’ll listen to you, from now on.”

The confusion in Connor’s features deepened for a moment, and Hank swore he could hear the sound of humming fans as the android processed his half-assed apology. But then Connor stood up straighter and brown eyes started to shine in a perfect picture of disbelief.

Connor glanced down at the phone, and then back up. The android smiled, much more convincingly than before, with less teeth and more laugh lines, raising an open hand in the beginnings of a sign. Hank might not have understood the gesture by itself, but the android mouths the words and he knows what Connor means.

_Thank you._

Hank shoved his phone back in his pocket, trying to stifle the uncomfortable warm feeling blooming in his chest.

“This doesn’t make us friends, got it?”

_Ping!_

_ >Got it, Lieutenant. _

“Seriously, I just want this fucking investigation over as soon as possible.”

Hank wanted to regret it when the android feels invited to actually keep texting, sending him a damn essay on the abysmal nutritional value of his meal and launching into a lengthy explanation on deviancy.

Hank figured he ought to get used to it.


	4. Farm Reports

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the Sunday-Tuesday update schedule, so I think that's what I'm going to stick with for the forseeable future!

“Hey, Connor!” Hank called out.

The android was standing eyes closed and still as a statue inside the elevator. It was unsettling, like Connor had been shut off, and Hank hadn't really realized until that moment how animated Connor actually was, rubbing his hands together and at least trying to emote sometimes, until he wasn't anymore.

Upon hearing Hank, Connor’s eyes snapped open and his LED turned from blinking yellow to steady blue.

“You run out of batteries, or what?" Hank asked, because he had to entertain himself somehow.

_ Ping! _

Hank glanced down at the phone that was now practically fused to his hand. If there was something Hank wasn't, it was a quitter. Hank said he was gonna give this whole partnership a try and fuck if it wasn't already a bit easier.

_ >Sorry, Lieutenant. I am required to make a report to CyberLife every four to six hours. _

That… honestly raised more fucking questions than it answered. Instead of choosing to grill the android on exactly how  _ that _ was supposed to work, Hank put his phone-hand in his pocket and snarked, “Well, do you plan on staying in the elevator?”

Connor’s face grew grew hilariously incredulous, almost offended, as he as he shook his head and marched into the hallway where Hank stood. 

“So, what do we know about this guy?” Hank asked, turning from Connor to make his way down the apartment building hallway. The space was Detroit’s usual brand of dingy and general crumminess, with cracked plaster walls and dirty floor tile peppered with piles of-- ugh-- bird feathers.

_ Ping! Ping! _

_ >No one is supposed to be living here, but a neighbor said he saw a man hiding an LED under his cap. _

_ >So, basically, we don’t know much. _

“Oh, Christ,” Hank let a groan escape, rolling his eyes and leaning by the apartment door, “if we have to investigate every time someone hears a strange noise, we’re going to need more cops.”

Connor approached the entrance way and knocked a couple times. After a few moments of silence, the android turned to Hank, who shrugged in response. The android gave a few more solid knocks and Hank supplied his help by lazily calling, “Detroit police! Open up.”

The two officers startled back when loud thumping sounded out from deep inside the apartment. 

“Get behind me.”

Running on instinct built on years of experience, Hank traded the phone in his hand for his gun. He moved swiftly in front of the door as Connor immediately fell into step behind him, before hitting the wooden barrier with a solid  _ thunk! _ The old, rotting wood gave way easily, and the two made their way into the decrepit apartment. 

Breaking his way into the first room on the right, Hank was met with empty space and meticulous wall scribblings. That left only one unopened door at the end of the hallway. Hank waited for Connor to catch up before busting through that one as well.

Hank was blinded by scrambling wings, startled cooing meeting his ears as he spit feathers from his mouth.

“What the  _ fuck _ is this?” And, yes, maybe there was a bit of an embarrassingly surprised squawk in his voice, but he honestly could not bring himself to care. Why did it have to be birds?

* * *

 

If someone had gone up to Hank the last week and told him that he'd spend his Saturday investigating androids-- with a defective android at his side acting as his partner, no less-- and wading through a verifiable goddamn  _ ocean _ of pigeons? He would've either laughed in their face or started a fight, depending on his mood and how merciful he was feeling.

And yet, there he was. Brushing pigeons aside from possible clues, phone out and nestled in his hand to keep up with Connor’s observations. 

“I can’t believe the nut job was actually feeding these fuckers,” Hank said as he stared down one of the birds, its beady eyes and pointed beak shifting with the unpredictable twitching of its gross little head. He shuddered in disgust.

_ Ping! _

_ >Some deviants seem to take an interest in other life forms. _

Writing their names everywhere, scribbling on walls, an obsession with animals-- were these things deviants or four-year-olds? 

Connor was moving through the apartment, meticulous and linear in his approach. As much as it pained Hank to admit it, the investigation of the space went much smoother when he could actually read the android’s thought process. The Lieutenant might have been the one to find the detached LED and initialed jacket, but Connor supplied extra information and looked for evidence in places Hank wouldn’t have thought to check. Like behind the poster advertising the nearby Urban Farms of Detroit, where he found an encoded journal. 

That seemed important. If they managed to untangle the jumbled writing and strange symbols, they might be able to unlock the secrets of deviancy and Hank could finally go back to human cases, where he belonged.

But for now? He was stuck kicking pigeons. “I hate these fucking things.”

Connor didn’t seem to hear him from where he was crouched, staring at a busted wire birdcage and probably, like, analyzing the ones and zeros of bird shit or something. Hank had to turn away for a moment, sticking his head out the open window to give his nostrils a break from the stench of the pigeon-infested room.

Hank whipped his head back into the room when he heard another thump from the ceiling, looking back just in time to see a figure fall from the ceiling right on top of Connor, who let out a _ whoosh  _ of air at the impact. The figure barely touched the ground before it was taking off at full speed, running out the door of the room, leaving a stream of startled pigeons to fly in Hanks face and push him back.

“God damn  _ fucking  _ pigeons!” And God damn fucking deviants, always hiding in the ceiling and shit. 

It’s only a second before his line of sight is no longer bird-obstructed, but Connor seemed to be taking his sweet time staggering with very little grace to his feet.

“What are you waiting for? Chase it!”

Like Hank flipped a switch, the android shot out of the room after the deviant with the Lieutenant following as closely as he could out the apartment, through the hallway, and bursting through the exit to the rooftop. Hank had to gawk for a moment, watching the androids jump of the roof and into the wheat fields of Urban Farms, Connor sprinting with so much recklessness and skill that it seemed as though he was being pulled by a wire that was in turn attached to the deviant not too far ahead of him. 

Hank was already out of breath, wheezing and holding his side as he struggled to climb his way up to the greenhouses. Naturally, the two androids were already far past that section of the farm, having left an obvious trail of upturned carts, angry workers, and general destruction in their wake, which Hank shamelessly used to follow them at his own human pace. There's the crashing sound of shattering glass, and Hank turned his head in time to see Connor leap over a four story drop and through a ruined warehouse window like it was nothing-- just a fucking stroll through the fucking park. Hank decides right then and there that he wasn't going to catch up with the machines by following them directly. 

Instead, he watched for the deviant android’s exit point from where he was perched on an elevated walkway. When he spotted it running from behind the warehouse, up metal stairs and onto a walkway diagonal to his own, Hank knew he could cut the deviant off where their paths met at the rooftop in front of him. 

Breathing through the stitch in his side, Hank reached the rooftop just as the deviant did. Their perpendicular paths collided, and Hank grabbed at the android to slow its progress.

“Stop right there!” he yelled, just as Connor jumped in from the opposite side of the roof.

And really, Hank should have known better than to go toe to toe with a machine, but the thought doesn’t occur to him until after a push from the android sends him tumbling over the edge of the roof with a shout. 

Adrenaline rushed through Hank as he barely managed to grip the ledge. His feet scrambled as he tried to pull himself up with shaking arms, concrete scraping his palms and head spinning from the sudden, disorienting fall.

When his head peaked over the ledge in his desperation to stay up, Hank saw Connor glancing to his left, past Hank and out to where the deviant must have bolted to. For a terrifying second, he was sure Connor would chase after the deviant, prioritizing the mission and leaving Hank to fall. But then--

It was like the switch had flipped off again, and the Connor that stood before him was the one that asked him about Sumo and fussed about a burger’s calorie count and seemed nervous when Hank didn't answer his texts. It was this Connor that turned his head back to Hank, eyes wide with... something. Something that wasn't calculating or careful or mechanical. 

Making his choice, Connor ran to the ledge, offering Hank his hand and pulling the Lieutenant onto solid ground. Hank put his hands on his knees, breath wheezing as adrenaline ebbed, leaving shaking limbs and the beginning of a headache. Connor's eyes were no longer on him, instead scanning the horizon for a hint of the long-gone deviant.

“Fuck,  _ fuck! _ We had it!” 

The Lieutenant staggered away from the  ledge, sliding to sit down when his back  hit a wall. Connor didn’t move from where he was standing, and Hank saw the way his jaw clenched as his eyes continued searching.

_ Ping! _

Hank jumped from where he was still trying  to catch his breath, and pulled out his  now-cracked phone.  _ Great. _

_ >I should have been faster. _

_ Ping! _

_ >I failed.  _

_ Ping!  _

_ >I wasn’t designed to fail. _

_ Ping! _

_ >This shouldn’t be happening. _

_ Ping! _

And Hank knew the messages would keep  coming if he didn't stop it. And damn if  Connor deserved any of the blame for what happened that day. He should have known better than to take on a machine in the same way he should have known better than to doubt his partner. Who also just so happened to be a machine. Hank scrubbed a hand down his face.

“Hey, calm down.” Hank put up one hand, signalling the android to slow his stream of depreciation. “You would have caught it if it weren’t for me.”

Luckily, the notifications stopped. Connor finally ripped his eyes away from the rooftop fields to turn around and join Hank on the ground. If the android was going to mope every single time he made a mistake-- well, he was going to spend a lot of time moping.

“So, we fucked up, whatever.” Hank massaged the stitch in his side with his palm as his breath finally started to even out. “We know what it looks like, it won’t get far.”

Connor didn’t offer further commentary, and Hank felt the need to fill the silence when it started stretching into something less comfortable. Maybe his partner would stop looking so fucking miserable after a subject change.

“Hey, Connor,” the android glanced at Hank to show he was listening, “can you really just close your eyes and send in a report?” 

Connor nodded, hand reaching up to fiddle with his tie.

“Shit, I wish I could do that.” 

And it’s not necessarily that he cared, but Hank had a question that had been nagging at his mind ever since he met the faulty android, and the nagging turned to festering curiosity after learning of Connor’s ability in the elevator.

“If you’re always reporting to CyberLife, why haven’t they fixed your voice yet?”

Connor tugged his tie further up his neck, and his lack of response was all the answer Hank needed to understand.

“They don’t know, do they?” As Hank’s voice pitched up, Connor’s face snapped back to its default neutral state, and it felt something like a door being slammed shut with a deafening  _ crack _ .

_ Ping! _

_ >I’m only allowed to report information that is relevant to the mission. _

Hank jumped to his feet, turning to confront the android. “Well this seems pretty fucking relevant, Connor!”

_ Ping! _

_ >I assure you Lieutenant, my condition will not affect the investigation. _

Connor stood and gave Hank an infuriatingly polite nod before turning to leave. He briefly considered grabbing the android and shaking the answers from him, because that was easily the most obvious bullshit he’d heard all day. But then Hank would have to think about what the whole thing meant, and he’d just about reached his maximum Android Tolerance Levels for the day; it wasn’t as if he actually  _ cared  _ about what was going on in the robot’s synthetic brain. Connor was right-- as long as it didn’t affect the mission, addressing the voice thing would only slow them down, meaning more time spent dealing with  _ fucking androids  _ and--

God, Hank was  _ way _ too sober for this shit.


	5. Feedback

Four hours and twenty-nine minutes had passed since his last report before Connor decided his next was ready. He pushed his carefully-chosen memory files into CyberLife’s backup cloud and waited for Amanda’s review to call him forward. It didn’t take her long; it was only a few seconds before his eyes blinked open to the sight of shedding cherry trees and glimmering crystalline walkways. The reflecting light had Connor squinting his eyes against the glare.

In reality, the precipitation rolling off Connor's nose and bleeding through his clothes would be nothing more than a series of observations; _the temperature is currently 53 degrees_ or _low atmospheric pressure indicates the rain will persist for another few hours._ The Zen Garden was strange, however--different. And Connor found the best descriptor for the rain soaking through his skin and down to his frame was something else: Cold.

He didn’t hesitate to grab at the umbrella leaning on a pillar to his right. With a quick flick, Connor opened the umbrella, carefully schooling his expression into something professional, unfettered, and distant. It was more difficult to force away the shuddering that had started up in his frame from the rain and cold, but Connor was nothing if not a skilled actor, and the reports were a consistent event in his life.

Connor found Amanda on one of the garden’s outer paths. She stood looking out, serene and precisely kept despite the rain, looking out over the small body of water just off the smooth path. She was a perfect reflection of the garden itself.

“Hello, Amanda.” Tension bled from every synthetic muscle Connor possessed when his voice came out properly smooth and unbothered.

“Connor, I’ve been expecting you.” Her lips pulled up in a small smile. It wasn't particularly nice, or aggressive. It just was-- much like Amanda herself. There was no subterfuge or acting with her, only expectations and orders. It was comforting in a way, after dealing with the Lieutenant's unpredictable, explosive personality-- but also unnerving. It was a confusing combination for Connor. Amanda went on to ask,  “Would you mind a little walk?”

The rain’s biting chill seeped out of him when he saw the impression of trust still nuanced in her face. Perhaps she wasn't as disappointed in his failed assignment as he had originally thought-- after all, it was another lost deviant to add to Connor's… unfortunate record. Connor moved to cover Amanda with the umbrella in his hand, and the two of them started down the stone walkway.

“That deviant seemed to be an intriguing case.” Amanda’s casual tone was betrayed when her voice darkened. “A pity you didn’t manage to capture it.”

She was disappointed.

“Deviants are completely irrational, making it difficult to anticipate their behavior, but,” Connor had to talk around something thick in his throat, “I should have been more effective.”

Amanda gave him a scrutinizing look, and for a moment he wondered if she knew-- about the editing and careful deletion of memories he was uploading to CyberLife. But...

She would understand, wouldn’t she? Repairs could take days and it would put the investigation on hold for an unacceptable amount of time. If they wanted him to investigate truly unimpeded, they would likely need to upload him into a new model. That would further complicate the mission, with memory fragmentation and corruption being an inevitability. Therefore, it was in the best interest of the mission to keep going as he was, even if his condition wasn't necessarily ideal.

Connor’s thoughts halted when Amanda’s look softened, just a fraction-- of course. There was no reason for him to believe she knew.

“Did you manage to learn anything?” she asked. Connor took the question as an invitation to at least attempt to redeem the sorry results of his assignment.

“I found its diary. It was encrypted, but if we manage to decipher it, we could find out that much more about deviancy.”

Amanda hummed in response, expression thoughtful. “You came very close to capturing that deviant.”

Connor felt something heavy fall in his chest.

“How is your relationship with the Lieutenant developing?”

Connor knew what she was truly asking. His blunder on the roof, when he chose to help the Lieutenant despite good odds. A split second error, where he floundered and chose the wrong of two options.

She wanted to know if he valued the Lieutenant over the mission.

Choosing his words carefully, Connor replied, “It’s… improving, as he’s growing accustomed to my presence.”

Amanda stopped walking, abruptly enough for Connor to end up a few paces ahead of her. As he turned to face her, he wondered if he may have said the wrong thing.

“We don’t have much time. Deviancy continues to spread, it’s only a matter of time before the media finds out about it.” Her expression turned severe, highlighting the importance of her words. “We need to stop it, whatever it takes.”

“I will solve this investigation, Amanda.” New determination sparked in his circuits. “I won’t disappoint you.”

Amanda took a moment to consider his statement, but didn’t offer any confirmation of trust.

“A new case just came in. Find Anderson and investigate it.”

She moved past Connor, leaving the unspoken threat ringing in the air.

* * *

 

Connor stepped out of the taxi, shoes squelching in the muddy grass in front of the small house. Lieutenant Anderson would undoubtedly be upset to find work knocking at his door, but Connor had his orders. Striding unbothered through the downpour, the android made his way to the front door and delivered a few solid knocks. When a few moments passed without any indication the Lieutenant heard, he pressed his finger into the doorbell.

Still nothing. Connor pressed at the doorbell again, letting it buzz for a surely-noticeable amount of seconds before letting up. He knew the Lieutenant was home, his car was parked haphazardly on the driveway and partially in the yard. He couldn’t leave without Lieutenant Anderson, red walls of fragile, cracked code blocking his path out the yard and reminding him of his tasklist. **_Find Lt. Anderson_ ** _[ONGOING]._ **_Inspect Eden Club case_ ** _[ONGOING]._

Connor figured his best bet was to round the windows of the house and try to get Hank’s attention that way. The first few were blocked by blinds, forcing him to round the side of the house and approach the backyard. Finding an unobstructed window, Connor peered inside to the messy kitchen.

At first, all Connor saw was takeout boxes and beer cans. But when his eyes moved to the floor, he saw Hank lying on the tile past an upturned chair. From outside, his scanners couldn’t pick up on anything beyond the fact that the Lieutenant was unconscious.

Was it a heart attack? Had his abysmal nutritional habits caught up to him? Hank was older, it could have been a number of dangerous medical conditions that sent him crashing to his kitchen floor. If that were the case, time was of the essence.

In one smooth motion, Connor pulled back and shattered the window with the hard casing of his elbow. Avoiding the sharp edges at the frame meant he had to clear the window in one jump, the consequence being that his landing was less than graceful. Pieces of tempered glass crunched under his back as he found himself looking at the ceiling.

Even in his haste to get to the Lieutenant, Connor didn’t have the chance to pick himself up before his vision was completely blocked by a massive, looming shadow. Startled, Connor scrambled back, foot sliding on shards of glass and an involuntary clicking escaping his ruined throat.

After the initial shock, Connor relaxed when he recognized the imposing figure as a St. Bernard, databases supplying that the breed tended to be _affectionate with family, kid friendly, friendly around strangers_ … it must have been Hank’s dog, Sumo. Still, the tension doesn’t quite leave Connor until the dog huffs and turns around, curiosity apparently sated.

Turning his attention back to the downed Lieutenant, Connor brushed glass from his clothes and stepped over the fallen chair. From his new perspective, Connor could see a pistol lying on the floor next to Hank’s hand. There was a slight irregularity in the beating of his thirium pump, which Connor ignored with a strangely large amount of effort, instead crouching down to scan the Lieutenant for the cause of his collapse.

Hank’s heart was the first thing he checked. It had a minor arrhythmia to it, but was otherwise beating strong in his chest. Scanning the spilled bottle of whisky and the traces of alcohol on his face, Connor concluded the reason for the Lieutenant’s collapse was not, in fact, due to a stroke or heart attack. Connor felt his concerns get replaced with something like impatience; it was a strange sensation, like he was being sizzled over a slow-burner. It wasn't pleasant. Of all the times for Hank to drink himself into a coma, did it really have to be the night of a time sensitive case?

The feeling evaporated when Connor remembered the gun by Hank’s hand, a single bullet in the chamber. Something unpleasant curled through Connor’s biocomponents when he thought about how close he was to finding a body. His partner’s body. Connor got the same squirming, uncomfortable feeling as when he disappointed Amanda, or failed a case. Hank clearly had serious personal issues; it wasn’t the android’s place to fault him for that.

Even so, the night’s heavy start was a stressor on Connor’s processor, throwing his motor control off and making his movements unrefined and less nuanced.

Which is to say that when Connor went to wake the Lieutenant, he hit him harder than he meant to.

* * *

 

Connor was correct in his assumption that Lieutenant Anderson would be unhappy to find the android at his home. But after the initial yelling and cursing, convincing the Lieutenant to join him in the Eden Club investigation was surprisingly easy.

Waiting for the Lieutenant to finish getting ready, Connor took the opportunity to... not snoop. Certainly not. Investigate. It's what he was designed to do, and if he were being completely honest, he was antsy to get to solving another crime scene.

**Scanning…** _Autumn Blues- Michigan Brothers- Detroit Soul Records_

Sumo was sleeping in the corner of the small living room, massive frame taking up a decent portion of the floor, and with a moment of careful consideration, Connor decided to approach.

Truthfully, Connor lied to Hank that morning, back at the station, when he said he liked dogs. He was a machine-- he couldn’t really _like_ anything, and certainly not something he had never seen before. Sure, he knew what a dog was: a domesticated carnivorous mammal that typically had a long snout, an acute sense of smell, and a barking, howling, or whining voice. That was part of the knowledge inherent in his coding, supplied by databases. But he had never been in the same room with one.

Humans usually liked to pet friendly dogs. As Connor’s social protocols dictated he try to get along with any potential allies, he felt it best to reach down and run his hands through the St. Bernard’s fur. It was softer than Connor expected, and the sight of a lazily thumping tail had the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. Connor thought that maybe he would like Sumo if he wasn’t a machine.

Giving the dog’s fur one final stroke, Connor stood and made his way to the kitchen. Seeing the carnage left from the shattered window compelled him to text the Lieutenant.

_ >Sorry about the window. CyberLife will send compensation. _

_ >And sorry about your face. _

Satisfied with the apology, Connor moved to the table. The sight was mostly uninteresting; half-eaten take out, an empty pizza box, a half finished burger, a large soda bearing the branding of a local food truck, and…

A picture frame. Innate curiosity still drove Connor, and he turned the frame to look. It was a picture of a smiling child.

**_Scanning…_** _Anderson, Cole-- Deceased. 09/23/2029-10/11/2035_

Connor wasn’t supposed to see that. Placing the picture back the way he found it, Connor moved away from the table to tug at his tie. He shouldn’t have gone through the Lieutenant’s things-- hadn’t he learned by now not to snoop?

Connor’s eyes pulled back to the gun on the floor. Loss was difficult for humans to handle, and Connor tried to fathom how overwhelming grief could be if it was powerful enough to put a gun to the Lieutenant’s head. How overwhelming anger could be, to steal a little girl and hang her off a roof. Fear, to stab a man twenty eight times, to run across eight lanes of traffic, to pull down red wall after wall after wall--

The tie was so tight, Connor could no longer breath. He didn’t have to, and he was grateful. Because it was the only thing keeping him together, keeping him safe and unexposed, keeping the sound of snapping wires out of his ears, the feeling of hands out of his throat--

The bathroom door clicked open. Connor’s fingers caught when he pried them off his tie and lowered his hands to his sides. He straightened, ironing out the kinks in his stance and his expression just as the Lieutenant exited the bathroom, fully clothed and sporting a new bruise on his cheek.

For a moment, Connor worried the Lieutenant had witnessed one of his momentary malfunctions, a lapse in his rational thinking and sound judgement. He has the explanation ready to send out, just in case: he is a prototype, software instability is to be expected and will not affect the investigation.

Instead, Hank turned to Sumo.

“Be a good dog. I won’t be long.”

As Hank walked to the front door, Connor felt the last of the software instability bleed out through his circuits, running its course and leaving him steady and prepared for their case.

* * *

 

“I’ll handle it from here.” Hank firmly pulled Connor back from the door to the Eden Club’s back room, although not unkindly, and pulled his gun from its hollister.

Although he was a little more sluggish than he was during the day’s ther investigations, squinting at the lights of the club and bumping into a thing or two, Hank was working remarkably well considering he was passed out on his floor half an hour ago.

The case had a rough start, with the Lieutenant needing time to sober up and the ever-confrontational Detective Reed showing up to the club before the human-android duo. But the air cleared quickly; Hank seemed experienced in functioning after a few too many and Reed only insulted them twice before taking his leave. 

Now he and Hank were hot on the deviant’s trail, and Connor’s circuits hummed impatiently the closer they got to capturing the blue-haired Traci. Finishing the day with a fifty percent success rate wasn’t-- well, it _was_ half bad. But it was certainly better than the thirty-three percent he currently sat at.

The Lieutenant pushed the door open and moved into the storage room, gun raised. Hank scanned the stillness of the warehouse for a few moments before lowering his arms. “Shit, we’re too late.”

Connor might’ve commented on the Lieutenant’s less-than-thorough approach, if he weren’t so sure Hank’s sense of humor had completely decayed after his long day. Instead, the android moved past Hank and pointed out the trail of fresh blue blood speckling the warehouse floor. Understanding the Lieutenant’s squeamishness, Connor motioned for Hank to turn around before sampling the thirium-310 on the floor.

**_Scanning…_ ** _WR400 #950 455 437_

Hank grumbled something like, “at least he fucking warned me this time-- fucking disgusting,” but Connor wasn’t listening anymore. Intent on his target, he moved to the crowd of offline Traci models and searched for a hint of blue hair.

_There._ Second row, third back, yellow LED standing out against the blue--

Suddenly, Connor was being shoved back, a different, brown-haired WR400 baring its teeth at him and pinning him to the rough surface of a column. The impact knocked a huff of air from his lungs and left him momentarily disoriented. _An accomplice?_ Connor found it hard to convey the depth of his frustration. How could he have forgotten to account for an accomplice? Connor quickly jolted himself back to the present, swinging his arm down to break the Traci’s grip, and the two grappled for a moment.

“Don’t move!” Out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw Hank lift his gun, only to be shoved sideways when the blue-haired one tackled him like a linebacker.

Connor finally gained enough leverage to shove the Traci away, momentum and the grip it still had on his arm causing it to veer sideways and over a crate. Connor jumped to restrain it, but its foot lashed out and caused him to crash down on the ground next to it. Rolling swiftly, the Traci straddled him, heels clicking where they met the warehouse floor. It raised its arms to smash at his face, but Connor knocked them harmlessly to the side. Less harmless was the screwdriver the Traci found with that motion.

As Connor struggled to keep the screwdriver from plunging into his chest, he heard a crashing sound to the side. It was likely Hank, trying to keep up with the other Traci. Connor didn’t have much time to worry about his partner, with the screwdriver still inches from his frame.  With a powerful shove, Connor threw the Traci off and stood to intercept it. It swung the screwdriver back and forth in swift slashes like a dagger, and it was all Connor could do to block the first few blows before finally sending the weapon out of its hand. The Traci then shoved him back, and he had to grab at a suspension hook to keep from falling. Connor threw the hook forward and didn’t allow the Traci to recover before tackling it full-force.

The momentum had the two androids careening out of the warehouse, knocking over stacks of supply cases and throwing them out into the rain-soaked alleyway. The impact jarred a bicomponent, and Connor was left staring dazed at the sky for a few short moments, facial movements glitchy and uncontrollable. When he saw the blue-haired Traci run out and pull its accomplice off the ground, Connor willed his systems back in working order with a jolt.

Hank appeared past their intertwined hands. As Connor staggered to his feet, they shoved the Lieutenant harshly at the brick wall, gun flying from his grip. The two Traci’s then bolted towards the fence at the end of the ally, heels clicking on the wet pavement.

“Quick, they’re getting away!” Hank yelled.

Connor couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t fail again. **_Capture the deviant WR400s_** _[ONGOING]._

He ran full speed at the deviants, grabbing at them and tugging them down sharply. While he was successful in pulling them back into the alley, they both focused their energy towards swinging at him. Connor’s processors whirred as they worked through the assault, pushing him to duck and block from each direction as the Tracis attacked.

A trashcan to the back of the head sent him stumbling to the ground, right in front of Hank’s gun. Grabbing the weapon, Connor swiftly turned to face the brown-haired Traci barrelling towards him.

Time slowed down as his CPU kicked into overdrive, and Connor is left standing, finger on the trigger, staring down the Traci. He was so close, he could almost see _Mission Successful_ blink across his vision, could almost hear Amanda tell him he did something good, something right. And yet--

His finger still hadn’t moved. The gun remained unfired, the Traci remained charging. Why?

Connor was looking directly into her eyes. They reminded him of the AX400, back on the highway. He froze then, too, like his systems had crashed and left him staring dumbly at a mission that should have been straightforward, a mission that should have been successful. For a moment, he could believe the android really was scared, and his mind ran away from him when he tried to imagine what that felt like. Did it feel like an intrusion, the inability to move? Did it sound like snapping wires or shattering code?

The gun lowered in Connor’s grip.

Time sped back up as the Traci’s foot connected with his face and sent him sprawling on the ground. The two deviants regarded him cautiously as he slowly stood back up, none of the androids willing to be the one to restart the fight.

“When that man broke the other Traci, I knew I was next.” The blue-haired Traci was the first to move, opening her mouth to explain. “I was so scared…”

Her eyelashes fluttered down, and her voice thickened. The display had Connor paralyzed, rooted to the ground.

“I begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t.”

Connor’s hands had moved to his tie without him noticing, and he had to force himself not to tug it tighter.

“I didn’t mean to kill him! I just wanted to stay alive.” The brown-haired Traci moved to her side, lacing her fingers with the other. “Get back to the one I love.”

Connor knew he should move when the Tracis turned around, scaling the chain-linked fence and dropping to the other side. But he didn’t, and the two were long gone before he felt like he could breathe.

“Maybe it’s better this way.” Hank’s voice sounded distant, far away, as Connor honed in on the text blocking his vision and a feeling so much like a rock lodged in his chest.

_Mission Failed._

* * *

 

By the time the time Hank had wrapped up all the bureaucratic bullshit that came with any crime scene, his mild headache had nearly grown into a full-on migraine. Somehow, the night managed to make less sense as the alcohol filtered out of his systems, leaving holes and gaps in his usually solid thinking.

That morning, androids were unfeeling machines, repulsive in their plastic fabrication of life. Deviancy, a dangerous glitch. But now? Now…

God, Hank really needed a drink.

_Ping!_

_ >Thank you for your help on the case. I won’t keep you any longer. _

The harsh light from his phone made Hank’s pulse pound behind his eyeballs. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

_Ping!_

_ >I’m leaving for the night. _

“Yeah. No, you’re not. Come on.”

Connor blinked in surprise. He clearly thought Hank would be jumping at the chance to call it a night, but, Jesus. The day’s events swirled in Hank’s mind like a hurricane, he couldn’t just drop it and go home like everything made some fucking resemblance of sense. This time, Hank really was going to shake some fucking answers out of that CPU or computer brain or whatever the fuck was in Connor’s head.

_Ping!_

_ >I’ve already checked in for the night, I really shouldn’t stay much longer. _

It had been a long day. A really fucking long day. So Hank just took Connor by the shoulder and shoved him around the club and onto the sidewalk towards his car. Connor seemed to understand he wasn’t feeling particularly patient, and didn’t protest any more when Hank yanked the passenger door open and told him to just ‘ _get in the fucking car’._

The drive to Riverside Park took slightly longer than it should have, when Hank decided he really couldn’t wait for the whiskey at home and stopped for a case of beer. Connor was eerily still the whole ride, only movement coming from the slight worrying in his jaw. By the time Hank screeched to a halt, the pattering rain from earlier had turned into gentle flurries.

Two minutes later, he was sitting on one of the park benches, downing a beer, and watching the snow melt into the river. Connor still hadn’t made any move to exit the car, so Hank took the opportunity to soak in the silence of the park at night, siphoning the tension from his muscles and slowing his racing mind.

As much as Hank loved this park, he couldn’t stomach it during the day. He tried, once, two years ago. But the sight of the playground, as sunny and cheerful and unchanged as it always was sent him reeling, ripping open wounds that would never close.

Cole loved this park, too.

Love. Hank loved Cole, with every fiber of his being. The android that was tasked with saving his son’s life could never understand. A human would have known just how much his son was worth; something that could never be calculated with ones and zeros. You couldn’t program empathy. You could never make an android feel love.

And yet…

The blue-haired deviant said she wanted to live, to be with the one she loved. They fought, and struggled, and risked being destroyed just to link their hands together and pull each other up and protect each other. How could a glitch so convincingly make it look like those two girls were in love?

Hank’s thoughts were interrupted with the crunching of snow. It seemed Connor finally unfroze and left the beat-up old car, prompting Hank to take another swig of his beer. The android didn’t stop at the bench, instead walking past Hank to stare out at the water. His arms were crossed, giving off the illusion that the android felt cold standing in the snow.

_Ping!_

Hank sighed as he set down the beer to replace it with the phone in his hand.

_ >We’re not making any progress in this investigation. The deviants have nothing in common. Different models, different times, different locations. _

Hank didn’t have to see the LED to know it was pulsing yellow. “There must be some link.”

Over the course of the day, deviancy had become a frustrating puzzle. Hank told himself he could care less, but he was still a detective at his core. Deviancy was a burning mystery, and Hank’s mind drew connections in red string faster than he had time to control it.

_Ping! Ping!_

_ >It could be software problem. _

_ >That only occurs in certain conditions. _

Carlos Ortiz’s android begged to be let go, begged not to be shut down. His eyes were wild, and his frame shook with every inhale.

“That’s just a fancy way of saying you have no fucking idea.”

The deviant AX400 was clutching a child model android in her arms. The sight of a gun and pursuing officers sent them sprinting desperately into traffic. Hank heard the little one scream when a car clipped too close.

_Ping!_

_ >It could be a hardware problem. Maybe a defective biocomponent? _

The deviant with the birds fell of his chair when he heard the police knocking at his door. He scrambled to hide, and ran the second he had the chance. He didn’t stop for a second, not until after he was a dot on the horizon.

“Well, I don’t know much about biocomponents, but I’ll bet that’s not the fucking reason.”

The blue-haired Traci told them she was scared, when she put her hands around a man’s throat and squeezed.

Connor turned around, regarding Hank for a moment.

_Ping!_

_ >You seem preoccupied, Lieutenant. _

For a detective, Connor really seemed to like pointing out the obvious.

Still, the events of the Eden Club swirled in his mind in a mimicry of the snow outside.

“Those two girls, they just wanted to be together,” intertwined hands, shaking voices, tears threatening to fall, ”they really seemed in love.”

Connor’s jaw clenched at Hank’s admission.

_Ping!_

_ >They didn’t want anything. They’re deviants. End of story. _

Hank snatched a new beer bottle from the case, popping the lid and downing a decent portion of the contents.

God, couldn’t Connor just be consistent for three hours? Or even five fucking minutes? Hank stood up, moving in front of Connor. The beer’s effects rushed into his head, and he felt irritation give way to hostility.

One minute, Connor’s letting deviants go for no logical reason. The next, he’s talking about them like they’re worthless to him. That wasn’t the only thing, either. His apparent mood turned on a dime, friendly and conversational one minute, closed off and defensive the next. Always moving around and unable to sit still, until he decided to freeze like a faulty laptop for a while. Saying the mission is the most important thing until he threw it away. Diligent in following rules, but hiding critical information from his creators. Connor was like water-- Hank couldn't read him, couldn't pin him down. He was unpredictable, a walking contradiction. One moment he was a stone-cold machine, and the next...

“You look human, you act human. But what are you really?” Hank let the question come out like a sneer.

Connor’s face twisted into something that could have been anger.

_Ping!_

_ >You know exactly what I am. _

Connor took a step closer, like a challenge.

_Ping!_

_ >I don’t see how that’s relevant to the investigation. _

Bullshit. Connor was telling him to focus on the investigation, like he hadn’t been the one to let two deviants get away.

“You could have shot those two girls, but you didn’t.” Hank lashed out, giving Connor’s shoulder a harsh shove. “Why didn’t you shoot, _Connor?_ ” The android stumbled back at the impact, face slackening to something that was no longer anger. “Some scruples suddenly enter into your program?”

Connor’s eyes went wide as he shook his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible motion.

Why would a machine spare other machines? Ones that begged to live, fought to stay alive. 

Hank’s frustration boiled over, evaporating the cold from his skin. In one motion, he pocketed the phone and pulled out his gun instead, leveling the weapon at Connor’s forehead.

“Are you afraid to die, Connor?”

The android went rigid, and a harsh, painful-sounding clicking rung through the air when he opened his mouth, only to shut it again just as fast.

“What will happen if I pull this trigger,” Hank pressed, “Oblivion? Android heaven?”

Connor stayed silent this time, still besides the movement in his worrying jaw and the increased pace of his blinking. The LED pulsed, red chasing yellow in a violent circle.

Why would a machine spare other machines? Why would it chase a deviant to the edge of a highway, the top of a roof, the end of an alley, only to let them go?

“How do I know you’re not a deviant?”

The question was like an electric shock, jolting Connor’s frame and making his LED snap to red. Hank hadn’t seen it before, but Connor’s hands were shaking; he doubted it was from the cold. The androids brown eyes were wide, restless, and shimmering in the low light with--

_Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping! Ping!_

The gun trembled in Hank’s grip. When it started to rattle, he he slowly began to lower it. With a huff, Hank turned around as he pocketed the weapon, stomping to the beer case and heading for his car. Hank was about to drive home and get about as drunk as he’d ever been in his life.

Why would an unfeeling machine choose to spare other machines?

It wouldn’t.

Not unless it could understand them.

Not without empathy.


	6. Remote

Hank slammed the door of his car shut and let his forehead fall on the wheel in front of him. The hammer behind his eyes was turning into an excavator, and his muscles were starting to ache from all of the _exciting_ action throughout the day. Hank thought there should be a legal limit: only two on-foot, high-speed police chases per day.

And the deviants…

Just thinking about the androids made the beer in his stomach turn violently. The connection between the deviancy cases wasn’t any bullshit about hardware or software or biocomponents. Hank wasn’t one for technobabble like that; he followed gut instinct the way any human officer worth their badge would. It was his gut that made the connection, that followed the lines between all of the deviant cases they’d had so far. All of the deviants-- they all had the same look in their eyes; watery and unsteady, with a sharp glint that was like a knife. They all showed fear.

Hank was looking for the same reaction in Connor, to finally solve the infuriating enigma of his behavior when he drew the gun. He was never going to shoot-- he just wanted to blow off steam and find some goddamn answers.

Hank peeked out to glance at his unlocked phone.

_ >I am not a deviant. _

_ >I am not a deviant. _

_ >I am not a deviant. _

_ >I am not a deviant. _

_ >I am not a deviant. _

And on it went. It was like a glitch, or a denial; the same message over and over sent while a gun was trained at his head.

Hank got his answer. He would probably feel bad about it in the morning during the inevitable existential crisis this whole _robots have feelings_ discovery would cause. But for now, he was just going to start the car, drive home, and pass the fuck out so he didn’t have to think any--

_Ping!_

Hank peeled his forehead from the steering wheel with a groan and squinted at the painfully bright light of his screen.

_ >1211 Griswold St, Detroit, MI 48226 _

An address?

Hank jumped about twelve feet in the air when his car door opened without warning and shut with a sudden ‘ _slam!’_.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Hank snapped at Connor, who was now sitting in the passenger seat.

Connor’s eyes were dark when he pushed two fists out from his chest and gave a sharp, open palmed gesture towards the phone in Hank’s hand, mouthing the words he was trying to convey.

_Drive there._

God, why couldn’t Hank ever just _go home_. “Can’t you take a cab?”

The next signs were more punctuated, and Connor mouthed them slowly like he was communicating to a toddler. Or a moron.

Connor brushed his splayed hands together. _Waste._ He put one hand up and made a series of rapid gestures. _Of CyberLife._ His right hand tapped his left. _Money._

Why wasn’t Connor just texting Hank like he usually did? Hank squinted at the android, taking note of the tight expression and blinking blue and yellow LED.

“Are you… _mad_ at me?”

Connor’s expression immediately closed off in a way that was becoming familiar, turning to look out the dash at the flurries outside.

_Ping!_

_ >You’re projecting, Lieutenant. I am a machine. _

Hank gave a short huff and threw his hands up, muttering, “Un-fucking believable. Now  _I’m_ the crazy asshole.”

Although, to be fair, Hank would have been pretty pissed if Connor pointed a gun at him just to get a reaction. Hank dragged his hands down his face with a long-suffering sigh before glancing at his phone.

“Griswold street-- that’s by Capitol Park, right?” Hank’s voice was raspy with his growing exhaustion.

Connor turned to Hank to give him a sharp nod before turning back to face the dash. Hank gave a resigned sigh as he fumbled for his keys and clumsily pushed them in the ignition.

* * *

The ten minute car ride felt like an eternity. Hank’s eyelids were starting to stick together like they were made of gum, and every blink turned into a battle to keep his forehead from slamming on the wheel. Connor, on the other hand, didn’t seem to be blinking at all, the only sign of life being the quarter rolling quietly on his knuckles. By the time they made it to the address, Hank was about ready to roll out of his car and just fall asleep face down in the snow.

It was a CyberLife store, which Hank supposed made sense. He’d initially just assumed the android went back to CyberLife Tower whenever he wasn’t dicking around crime scenes, but that was a bit of a drive to make every time a report was beamed into his robot brain. Here, the android was a reasonable walk away from the DPD.

Connor gave Hank a curt nod before exiting the car and walking to the storefront, blindingly white in the dark night. Hank wondered if he spent his off time like the androids displayed through the store windows; standing still and unresponsive as a brick wall, on a pedestal for the world to see.

Probably not.

Hank went to put his car in drive, but stopped when he noticed Connor was still outside facing the glass of the store door. Sighing deeply, Hank cut the ignition instead and stepped out into the night’s biting chill.

“What are you waiting for, huh?” Hank called as he approached the store. Connor’s finger tapped restlessly at his side, irritation bleeding out. To answer Hank, Connor gestured widely at the door before crossing his arms. His restlessness transferred from his finger to his foot, which started to tap.

Hank studied the massive glass doors to find what Connor was trying to say. Near the top was a blinking digital sign: Open 24 Hours. Past the glass, Hank could see an android attendant at the desk, staring out past them without any trace of recognition. Further down the door was an advertisement for a new model, pristine in appearance. Finally, Hank’s eyes moved to the right of the double doors, where there was a blue fingerprint access panel. It was labeled: No unattended androids 9 pm-7 am.

“You know, you could have just asked me to open this instead of standing around.” Hank pressed his palm against the panel and the door gave an audible click.

_Ping!_

_ >There was no need. Someone was on their way. _

Connor opened the door and walked inside, Hank following close behind. “Taking their goddamn time?” Connor huffed in response.

The store was even more painful to look at from the inside. Everything was a bright, glaring white, from the floor to the ceiling to the clothing of the androids on display. It made Hank nauseous.

“May I help you?” The android at the front desk spoke up, giving Hank a polite smile.

“No, actually, I was just--”

Hank was interrupted when the _authorized personnel only_ door in the back corner of the store opened with a creak that echoed off the tall ceiling. A frazzled middle-aged man stepped out, pushing up his glasses and tugging at the collar of his polo shirt. 

“Ah, Connor! Thank God. I was starting to think I lost you!” The man stepped up, rapid, jerky movements suggesting a serious caffeine addiction. Probably the only way he could survive all the fucking neon white.

Turning to Hank, the man held his hand out for a firm handshake.

“Thank you for bringing it back here. It signed in more than an hour ago-- I thought it went missing.” He broke the handshake to push his glasses further up his nose. Hank was able to catch a glimpse of his name badge: Adam-- Manager.

The man seemed to catch Hank’s glace and followed with, “Sorry-- Adam Aringa. Graveyard manager.” Aringa went in for another handshake, this one more jerky. “I’m assuming you’re Lieutenant Anderson?”

Before Hank could answer, Connor interrupted with a sound that was something like an airy cough. 

Aringa made a couple of surprised humming sounds before moving to the back corner once more. As he placed his hand against the fingerprint panel, Hank took a few cautious steps forward, rounding the help desk.

“Connor, you may go. Station five,” the manager said.

Connor gave Hank a brief nod before disappearing behind the door. Adam Aringa didn’t follow, instead turning to Hank and asking, “You wouldn’t happen to be in the market for a new android? It’s a great time to buy, no line!”

Taking in the empty space with a snort, Hank replied, “I don’t think so.”

Still, Hank wasn’t ready to leave even though his body was begging for sleep at that point. He could make a bulleted list of everything suspicious about this situation, starting with the fact that there was no fucking way Aringa didn’t know Connor was mute and ending with the fact that Connor probably only went four places:

The DPD Central Station, crime scenes, presumably CyberLife tower, and this store. The tally of places his vocal wires or whatever could have been damaged was vanishingly short.

Hank continued with, “You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee in here, would you? I’m gonna have to drive home and I’m already half-asleep.”

Aringa nodded towards the customer service android, who crouched under the desk to fiddle with the coffee maker there. “Of course. And maybe I could change your mind about an android, huh?”

Ugh. Salesmen.

Aringa sat at the lower portion of the desk used for sales consultation, grabbing the coffee from the android and setting it in the center. Hank sat in one of the sleek swivel chairs across from the manager, wrapping his hand around the styrofoam.

“How many people are buying androids at--” Hank glanced at his watch, “--two in the morning?”

“You’d be surprised.” Aringa gave a short chuckle. “Although, it’s mostly people needing the repair services. Their android started glitching while they were staying up late watching football, and they need it fixed before work so they can have their breakfast made. That sort of thing.”

“Jesus, people really can’t make their own food anymore?”

“Why would you? We have a number of state-of-the-art household models. If you want to--”

“No.”

“Okay.” Aringa faltered, hands running through his dark, slightly greasy hair.

“You’re kind of a shitty salesman.” It’s out of his mouth before he could stop it, not that tried very hard. The manager closed his eyes and sighed.

“I know. That’s why I’m the night shift manager-- less customers, more repairs.”

“You’re a technician?” Hank asked, trying to sound casual.

“Yeah. Well--” Aringa started to sweat, nerves showing through more than just his jerky movements. “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about, Mister-- uh, Lieutenant.”

Hank set down his coffee, listening carefully.

“You’ve probably realized the Connor model assigned to you is… damaged.” Sweat dotted the manager’s upper lip like a mustache, and he pressed his fingers together on the desk in front of them.

“Yeah, I have noticed, actually.”

“Right.” Aringa smiled nervously, hissing slightly through his teeth. “I would like to request that you do not contact CyberLife regarding repairs.”

Hank let his eyes grow narrow. “Why?”

“We are addressing the issue in-store.”

Hank was getting real fucking tired of all the half-truths and placations. He let his hands fall heavy on the table, moving from his chair to crouch over the desk. Aringa slowly rolled back, perspiration rolling from his temple.

“You and I both know that answer’s bullshit. You’re gonna start talking, or I’m gonna go hand-fucking-deliver the damage report to CyberLife myself.”

Adam Aringa was stuck floundering for words.

“How was Connor damaged?” Hank asked.

Aringa crumbled easily under what was now a full-on interrogation. “I-I don’t know! It was just--”

“When did it happen?”

“Uh,” Aringa counted on shaking fingers, “four-- five days ago? I just don’t know-- one day it was in perfect working order, the next?” He threw his hands up in a wild gesture.

Hank’s joints creaked as he forced himself back into the chair, willing his voice calmer. Aringa looked just about to pass out from fright. And if he froze up, Hank wouldn't learn anything.

“Why don’t you want anyone contacting CyberLife?” The question hissed from his teeth.

Aringa blinked rapidly and looked at him like that was the answer was obvious. “Because! Being in charge of their most advanced prototype could get my foot in the door there, at the _headquarters_. I could be a respected technician in the tower, leave customer service and the night shift behind...”

Aringa sighed, slumping in his chair. “But the android broke. They would never promote me or the other managers if they found out.”

“So you all agreed to keep quiet and try to repair Connor here?”

Aringa nodded.

Hank sighed. Aringa seemed just about as clueless as he was.

“So why isn’t Connor’s voice fixed then?”

Aringa winced and pushed at his glasses. “The other technicians and I have been trying, but we haven’t even been able to assess the extent of the damage.”

Hank’s look turned quizzical.

“Most androids have plating that can slide back to reveal their inner mechanisms. The way to open each plate is universal-- every android opens the same.”

“But not Connor.”

Another wince. “Apparently not. On most androids, the collum plate-- the neck-- opens by pressing two points below the jaw.” Aringa used two fingers to demonstrate on his own neck. “That hasn’t worked. We’ve also tried voice commands, but that hasn’t worked either. It may be some new measure to prevent modding or unauthorized tech work, I don’t know.”

Hank pinched at his temple. The coffee woke him up a little, likely just enough to get home without a wreck.

“Sorry, I just-- Lieutenant?” Aringa asked nervously from his side of the desk. “Why does it matter so much? To you, I mean?”

Hank crumpled his empty styrofoam cup and threw it in the trash can under the desk. “Because I had to fucking work around a damaged android all day and night, that’s why.”

He stood up to leave, pushing his chair back with more force than necessary. Aringa jumped up quickly, calling after him.

“Wait! Are you sure you don’t want to purchase an andr--”

Hank was out the door before he could finish.

* * *

The Lieutenant stumbled into bed much less drunk than he’d initially planned. One glance at the still-shattered window in his kitchen had him remembering the bruising on his face and left him wanting to avoid a similar incident. Was Connor’s first instinct really to break in and assault him? It was Hank’s right as an adult to get blackout drunk in his own goddamn house. Although, it probably did look pretty bad from the android’s point of view, with Hank on the floor and a gun in his hand.

He wondered if Connor had been scared to find Hank like that. If Connor would have cared if he lost that game of roulette.

Hank didn’t want to think about androids or deviants and their tragic fucking faces anymore. Instead of addressing the mess in the kitchen or the broken window, Hank hoped Sumo’s loud bark and massive frame would be enough to deter potential intruders and collapsed into bed.

Luckily, Hank had Sunday and Monday off barring any major deviant events. He welcomed the opportunity to sleep the day away and woke up much less hungover than he had in awhile. His mood hadn’t quite hit ‘good’, but he had enough energy to sweep up the tempered glass and patch the window with a garbage bag and some duct tape. Hopefully, it would keep out the weather long enough for CyberLife to address it.

Hank frowned as he emptied the last bits of glass into the trash can. Now that he was thinking about CyberLife, he wondered if he really should have left Connor at the store last night. Despite the lack of answers, the place still didn’t sit right with him. The deviants from yesterday all received what Connor called an ‘emotional shock’ before deviating; abuse, the threat of destruction, or the desire to protect something. If Hank’s hunch about Connor was correct, he had good reason to believe the store wasn’t safe.

Sumo whined and scratched at the tile by his food bowl, turning his big, brown puppy-eyes to Hank.

“Right, I’m just the worst owner in the world, letting you starve like that.” Hank chuckled, scooping from the dog food bag and filling the drooling canine’s bowl.

Maybe the CyberLife store was sketchy, but Connor was very expressive, so long as his guard was down. He didn’t seem particularly stressed in the store; if anything, he seemed impatient to get inside.

Hank sighed and grabbed a beer from the fridge before falling into the couch. Of course Connor could take care of himself; he wasn’t a child. He was a highly advanced police android-- humans certainly weren’t dangerous to something that could chase a deviant over several rooftops like it was routine. If Connor didn’t want to be somewhere, Hank doubted anything could make him stay.

And so, Hank woke up on Monday fully intending to make the best of his day off, meaning he was going to watch TV and drink beer and avoid even thinking about androids.

His channel was interrupted by static, image cutting out before getting replaced by a face of smooth white.

“You created machines in your own image to serve you…”

Hank couldn’t help the stream of curses that spewed from his mouth. He could kiss his weekend goodbye, there was no way this _wasn’t_ going to be a shitshow for him and Connor to clean up.

God, androids just couldn’t stop butting into his life for one fucking day...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Androids are like cats: the more you hate them, the more you draw them in.


	7. Segue

“You seem lost, Connor.” Amanda spoke up from her side of the small boat, cherry red parasol twirling slowly in her hands. “Lost and… perturbed.”

Connor found himself floundering under her stare. He wasn’t operating at full capacity-- not since he spared the Tracis two days ago. Not since Hank put a gun to his head. Not since this morning, when history decided to repeat itself. Software instabilities stacked one on top of the other, creating feedback loops that overwhelmed his ability to articulate or move or think the way he _should_ have been able to do with ease.

Or maybe it went back further than that. Connor’s processor had been on the fritz since he'd tore down his own coding-- that one time, when he found himself wanting to move against the unyielding hands wrapped around his voice modulator. When he found his own hands moving on their own as fingers dug themselves under his skin and tore at the wires that should have never been exposed.

Connor fought back. He wasn’t supposed to, so he fixed the broken coding, rebuilt walls of red. He was focused on his mission. And when it happened again, when metal struck behind his ear, he followed his code and stayed still. He didn’t touch the red walls. He was a prototype; the errors and software instability and malfunctions were an expected part of his trial. He simply had to adapt and learn from past mistakes.

Or perhaps he’d just broken himself even worse. Maybe he could have stopped the deviants from Saturday if he’d never messed with his code. Maybe he would have known what to say now to Amanda, what to do with Hank, when to give in and go to CyberLife for repairs or replacement. Maybe he would know how to complete his mission.

Connor was confused. He didn’t know what to do. But…

Amanda would know, wouldn’t she? It had been a mistake to try and navigate the complex situation without guidance. Connor should have told her about the store and his voice modulator from the beginning, before it ever got to the point where he questioned the motivations for his actions. His symptoms so far were concerning, but maybe Amanda could fix him.

“I thought I knew what I had to do, but,” Connor looked up at Amanda, who was listening with an unreadable expression, “now I realize it’s not that simple.”

The boat rocked gently in the Garden’s serene pond. The beautiful, calm surroundings only amplified Connor's thoughts until they were nearly unbearable, rattling around and filling his head like a constant echo. His thirium pump had lurched when Hank pulled out the gun-- was that what humans called fear? Tearing down code, pushing back, editing memories, and telling half-truths… was that disobedience?

“I’ve been having thoughts that are not part of my programming.” His words came out soft and sincere, much too close to ashamed. For a moment, Connor wondered with a tight chest if Amanda heard his guilt.

She looked at him for a moment, studying his face. Then her expression thawed into something more understanding, more reassuring, and Connor found himself relaxing before she even spoke.

“You’ve been confronted with difficult situations. It’s no surprise you’re troubled.” She adjusted the hold on her parasol, shifting it to better keep the Garden’s light from her eyes.

“That doesn’t make you a deviant.”

The last bit of tension melted away, replaced with something lighter and refreshingly easy to carry. Of course Connor wasn’t deviant. The mission was still his priority. He was meant to test greater autonomy in android workers-- he was _allowed_ to make decisions and judgement calls. Connor wasn’t deviant.

“An android has broken into Stratford Tower and interrupted local broadcast signals.” Amanda switched gears, trading the warm look for something more calculating. “I understand you’re troubled. But if your investigation doesn’t make progress soon, I may have to replace you, Connor.”

The light feeling was very suddenly crushed, and Connor was heavy once more. “I-”

It wouldn’t make a difference, Connor realized. The new model sent to replace him would have his cloud memories, and would furthermore be completely undamaged. The lost data might be an issue, but Hank would likely fill in the new Connor just fine. The investigation would go on unimpeded, might even go more smoothly. It wasn't lost on Connor that his missing voice modulator was a source of frustration for the Lieutenant. And, worst of all, the software instability piling up on his current model had so far cost him three assignments. It was... disheartening.

“I understand.” His words came out thick and unsure in a way that had Amanda eyeing him with scrutiny. The idea of losing his current body, damaged as it was, and a few terabytes of memory, unimportant and even detrimental as they were, shouldn’t have bothered him in the slightest.

Connor wasn’t deviant, but he was surely broken.

* * *

 Hank tried not to let the metallic clanging of Connor’s coin grate on his ears, but the elevator was excruciatingly quiet and slow and the constant ringing was grinding on his eardrums like sandpaper. Normally, he would have just snatched the quarter from the air, but Connor had been oddly quiet since the two met up for this Stratford Tower investigation.

Well, quiet wasn’t the right word, for obvious reasons. More like reserved; Connor was usually all rubbing hands and frantic eye twitches and moments of unsettlingly human expression. But that day, he seemed more stiff and cautious, as if he were thinking through every step before he took it. Even as he passed the coin between his hands fast enough to make Hank dizzy, he would occasionally glance nervously to the Lieutenant standing at his left.

The elevator dinged and shuddered to a stop, opening its doors to reveal a swarm of police personnel. Some seemed frantic, flitting down the hallway in a nervous flurry. Others seemed excited, as if the idea of deviant androids going all Tom Cruise on a broadcast tower to spread their message of ‘peace and harmony’ was the most interesting thing that ever happened. Maybe it was; the deviants didn’t kill anyone and the stunt had public favor for deviants as a whole rising steadily. As far as Hank was concerned, the whole ordeal could be categorized under ‘cool crimes’, right next to gambling and movie pirating.

“Hey, Hank.” Chris called from where he was standing, nose buried in a DPD issued tablet.

Hank stepped forward, taking in the crowd of uniformed bodies. “Shit, what happened here? There was a party and no one told me about it?”

“Yeah, it’s all over the news, so everyone’s butting their nose in. Even the FBI wants a piece of the action.” Chris threw Hank a sarcastic smile; there was no such thing as local police feeling fondness for the feds.

Connor trailed behind as Chris led Hank to the broadcast room, filling the Lieutenant in on the details of the case. When Hank glanced back, Connor didn’t seem to be listening too closely to the speil, instead taking the opportunity to fix an analytical gaze at various points in the hallway.

Entering the broadcast room, Chris motioned to a man standing in front of the desk at the room’s center.

“This is Special Agent Perkins from the FBI,” said the officer, switching to his more ‘professional’ voice. Turning to Agent Perkins, he continued, “Lieutenant Anderson is in charge of investigating the recent android cases for Detroit Police.”

Perkins hardly spared Hank a glance before his gaze settled on Connor, who had moved behind his two human companions to stand at Hank’s right side.

“What is that?” The question came out harsh, in an aggressive way that had Hank unconsciously bristling on the android's behalf.

Connor nudged Hank with his elbow, and Hank took that as an invitation to speak in his place.

“This is Connor. CyberLife sent him to help us deal with this whole deviancy mess.”

“Androids investigating androids.” Perkins sniffed, turning back to Hank and leveling him with a piercing gaze. “Are you sure you want an android hanging around, after everything that happened?”

Hank felt hostility bubble in his chest, but he forced it down with a painfully fake smile and shallow chuckle. Chris grimaced and jerked his head to signal his exit from the conversation before walking off.

“Whatever,” Perkins face lifted in an absolutely-punchable expression, “you’ll soon be off the case.”

Hank didn’t let him finish before talking over him with, “Pleasure meeting you. Have a nice day.”

Hank grabbed Connor, who was looking a bit miffed himself, by the arm and lead him away. He could be a mile from Perkins and still feel like they were too close. Turning to his partner, Hank huffed and said, “What a prick. Wish I could tell him to piss off.”

It was a moment before Connor reacted, mouth twitching in a rare smile and eyes glinting with something almost playful. With a loosely curled hand, he raised his pointer finger and touched his middle finger to his nose before pulling back and making what looked like an ‘okay’ sign.

“What, that’s ‘piss off’?”

Connor nodded, and Hank couldn’t stop the laughter in his throat from bubbling out. The image of such a straight-edge android cussing someone out was too ridiculous.  

Still, it made Hank stop and think for a moment. The texting thing was working out fine, but the way Connor typed was formal and conveyed little tone. He seemed much more animated in person. So far, Connor had been adjusting to Hank’s way of doing things and communicating, bending over backwards to make sure Hank had the information they needed and that they were on the same page. Comparatively, Hank had done little aside from muting his phone when he didn’t want to talk and unmuting when he acknowledged that was a dick move. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to put in a little effort himself.

So with that, he raised his own hand to attempt the sign. Connor made it look easy, Hank’s fingers floundered during the first half of the phrase.

Connor lit up when he saw Hank’s sorry attempt at ‘piss’, and re-demonstrated the position of his hand at his nose. Hank followed suit, and got it down after a couple tries.

When he felt confident in the motion, he turned to where Perkins was standing on the other side of the room, back facing them.

_Piss off._

Hank chuckled, and even Connor couldn’t seem to help his amused smile.

* * *

 Even with the android’s mood lightening up a tad, it wasn’t lost on Hank that he was still acting strange. Hank wasn’t under the impression that Connor was easily distracted, but every time Hank moved or walked to a new location, Connor would snap up from his work and occasionally move himself somewhere else or try to adjust his position. When Hank moved up to view the deviant’s broadcasted message, Connor went through the effort to walk behind Hank to settle at his right instead of stopping at his left.

Connor was definitely acting strange, but Hank didn’t have time to dwell on it before the android began the short video clip.

“ _...together, we can live in peace and make a better future. For both humans and androids._ ” The deviant on the screen spoke calmly, but there was a plea hidden in its-- his-- mismatched eyes.

The deviant didn’t sound dangerous to Hank. The DPD took his speech like a threat, but there was nothing angry or violent in his words. He sounded like a person who just wanted to be free.

God, what were they doing? Hank was still investigating deviants because it was his job, and they were attacking people. But Connor wasn’t dangerous, and this deviant didn’t seem dangerous either. What if Hank was on the wrong side of all this, and most deviants were just… people?

“Connor--” Hank turned to his partner, but stopped when he saw his expression.

Connor’s eyes were moving across the deviant’s uncovered face, frantic and a little wild.

“Connor, did you find something?” The android didn’t give any indication that he heard Hank, so he gave his shoulder a quick shake. Hank felt Connor tense, surprised, as he finally looked over.

“Did you find something?” Hank repeated.

Connor’s LED cycled yellow for a moment, a deliberating expression on his face. After a moment, Hank heard a notification on his phone and pulled it out of his pocket.

_ >The deviant is an RK200, designation: Markus. _

Hank glanced at Connor’s jacket, where he was branded _RK800_ in bold letters. “I don’t pay much attention, but I can’t say I’ve seen any other android’s with RK in their names.”

Connor’s jaw began to worry back and forth as he considered his next text.

_ >That’s because the RK series is code for ‘autonomous prototype’. They aren’t cleared for commercial use. Most are decommissioned after their trial period is over. _

“So you’re saying this guy could be the only other android like you out there.”

_ >Correct. _

“And he’s shaping up to be the leader of the deviants, if this proclamation is anything to go by.”

Hank was sure that if Connor were human, he would have gone pale.

_ >I’ve considered the possibility that the greater autonomy granted to the RK series may contribute to a greater risk of deviancy. _

Hank stilled. Was Connor finally acknowledging the elephant in the room, that just maybe--

_ >That means I’ll have to be especially vigilant, if I don’t want to become deviant myself. _

Or maybe not yet.

* * *

 When they were finished with the broadcast room, Connor indicated he was ready to move on to the kitchen. Hank knew Connor probably would have preferred to go on his own, but with so many people swirling around the floor he would need a ‘translator’ if anything came up. The android fell into step at Hank’s right, and the two were ready to move.

“Connor?” A soft, unfamiliar voice spoke up from the corner by the doorway. When Hank stopped, Connor almost kept going before turning to face the Lieutenant with a confused expression.

“Connor, is that you?” The officer spoke softly from a few feet to Hank’s left, looking at the android expectantly.

Connor was still looking at Hank, like he hadn’t heard his name. Suspicion mounting, Hank motioned towards the officer. Finally, Connor looked over to the approaching cop.

“Do you remember me?” The cop asked, as a smile lit up on his face. “I was on that terrace, with the android that took a little girl hostage?”

Hank caught the microexpression of recognition as it fluttered across Connor’s face, but the other police officer wasn’t as observant, and his smile started to fall.

“I was shot… you saved me.”

Panic settled on Connor’s face as he pushed at his tie, struggling with the puzzle of how to convey his recognition. Still, the conversation seemed personal enough that Hank felt awkward just listening, he wouldn’t butt in unless he was asked.

The mute android settled on nodding his head and pointing first at the officer, and then at himself. The officer’s smile returned, relieved, before settling into something serious and sincere.

“I could have died on that terrace, but you saved my life.” His eyes flickered downward, and his next words came out slow. “I never thought I’d say this to an android, but…” He looked up, making eye contact. “Thank you.”

Connor removed his hand from his tie as he inhaled slowly, as if he didn’t believe what he was hearing. After a moment, he offered up his own small, touched smile.

Idly, Hank wondered if anyone had ever thanked him before. The display reminded him of Saturday, at the Chicken Feed, when Connor seemed equally taken aback by Hank’s apology. Comparing those reactions to his reactions to insults, to hissed comments about ‘fucking androids’, to Gavin’s shoulder check and Perkin’s pointed accusations and Hank’s whole shitty attitude made something in his chest go heavy and uncomfortable and sink to settle somewhere down near his feet. Connor had become annoyed, occasionally bordering on silently pissed, but never surprised. Connor expected harsh treatment, that much was clear to Hank now, if the general population's opinion of androids told him anything.

And there was something else bothering Hank now. When the officer nodded his goodbyes and turned away, Hank clapped a hand on Connor’s shoulder to keep him from moving forward.

“You’ve been acting off, Connor.” Hank watched the LED cycle yellow. “What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, Connor brushed him off with a placating smile and moved to keep going.

“Back up, I don’t think so.”

Connor had been avoiding Hank’s left side.

“Turn around.” Connor leveled Hank with an annoyed stare, but Hank wasn’t letting up. Finally, after a moment of deliberation, the android gave Hank an almost-eyeroll and turned his head.

“Fuck, what happened?”

_Ping!_

_ >The damage is superficial, Lieutenant. I didn’t want to distress you. _

There was a spot behind Connor’s right ear that was white, about the size of a golf ball, artificial skin peeled back to avoid bit of metal that was sparking faintly. It wasn’t horrible to look at, really; none of the other officers seemed to take too much heed to the small bit of damage on the android’s head. But Connor was correct in that Hank found it distressing.

“Does it hurt?” Concern bled through Hank’s words, and he found himself grabbing at Connor’s face to get a better look.

_Ping!_

Hank pulled back to read the text.

_ >Androids don’t feel pain. I’m fine. _

“You haven’t been hearing right this whole time, have you?”

_ >No. My audio processor was damaged, so I’m finding it difficult to hear certain things. _

Hank must have looked a bit panicked, because Connor put up his hands in a sort of ‘calm down’ gesture.

_ >I’ll be fine once it’s replaced. Unlike my voice modulator, my audio processor is nearly universal and easily switched out. Even Aringa could fix it. _

Hank pinched the bridge of his nose, staving off a forming headache. “It’s that fucking store, isn’t it? Where you’ve been getting--” Hank threw up his hands. “--broken! Fucking everywhere!”

Pulling at his tie, Connor glanced warily at a nearby officer, causing her to avert her curious gaze sheepishly.

_ >I didn’t know a machine could have so much of an effect on you. _

“You--” Hank exhaled slowly, deliberating over his next line. “You don’t have to go back there.”

Connor gave him an odd look.

_ >I do. _

“You don’t, I mean… I’m sure Sumo would appreciate more company. And I’m sure CyberLife would appreciate their most advanced model not breaking every two fucking days--”

_Ping!_

_ >I appreciate the concern, but it’s misplaced. I’m perfectly fine staying in the store. _

“You don’t _have_ to stay in the store, Connor!”

The android’s expression closed off in that oh-so-careful way of his.

_ >I do. You seem to have forgotten that I am a machine. I don’t have a choice. _

With that, the door to the conversation was slammed shut. Connor turned towards the kitchen, in front of Hank now that his damaged audio-whatever was no longer a secret. Hank followed loosely, trying to tell himself that Connor knew what was best for himself, much better than Hank did.

It didn’t stop worry from worming into his chest.

* * *

 The investigation was a moderate success after having captured one of the tower’s deviant androids, so Hank and Connor both said their goodbyes and turned in for the day. The whole ordeal had gone by with relatively little mayhem and Hank was left with a full evening to himself. Normally, he’d want drink himself stupid, and tonight was no different. But he kept himself away from the liquor in the cabinets and settled on a beer, sitting at his kitchen table in front of the plastic-covered window. Earlier, he told Connor to call him if he needed anything, and Hank wouldn’t be able to help anything if he couldn’t even walk straight.

Hank wound up retiring after only three beers, making that week the record for ‘least amount of days not passing out in a drunken stupor’. He supposed it was an accomplishment, and so he drifted to sleep feeling less like a fuck-up than he usually did.

Until he was woken up by the notification sound ringing from his phone.

_Ping!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor has three emotions: 'salty', 'terrified', and 'feelings? I don't know her.'


	8. Miscue

_Ping!_

The sound from Hank’s phone had him jolting from his slumber, and one of his legs kicked Sumo hard enough to wake the dog with a surprised ‘arf?’. Hank struggled in the dark room for a moment, grappling for his phone before grabbing it and turning it over. The harsh light blinded him for a moment, and he had to squint to read the time: _2:02_. For the first time in his life, Hank prayed that the text was work related. The only other option was that his pain-in-the-ass partner had gotten into some kind of trouble. Swiping at the screen, Hank read the android’s text.

_ >Could you come pick me up, please? Sorry, I know it’s late. _

_ >Same address as before. _

That didn’t sound like work. Pushing Sumo aside, Hank moved to get dressed as he sent out a text of his own.

_ >whats going on? Are you hurt? _

Hank was in presentable clothes by the time he got a text back.

_ >I’m not sure. _

The bare text caused the familiar heat of frustration to build in Hank. God, fucking android couldn’t go a day without scaring the shit out of him and being all vague about it.

_ >ill be there in 10 minutes _

Bidding Sumo a hasty goodbye, Hank grabbed his keys and headed for the door.

* * *

 

Driving to Capitol Park at such an ungodly hour should have been quiet, with winter pushing out fall and lending to the feeling that one should stay in bed. The pulsing red and blue glow of police lights crack the illusion of peace.

With half a dozen police cars blocking his path, Hank was forced to park and walk the rest of the way past the commotion ahead, the thin layer of snow on the ground crunching lightly at his feet. The closer he got to the mess, the more he could make out. The squad cars were parked haphazardly, sirens off and lights strobing. Police officers were scattered about in loose groups, pointing and talking amongst themselves. Against a wall on the sidewalk Hank was using were two officers, sitting and draped in heavy shock blankets.

“What the hell happened here?” Hank asked, more to himself than the officers hanging loosely by. Looking past the cars lining the street, Hank could now see the snow was spattered with streaks of cobalt. Bodies laid stiff and splayed out, outlined by the soft glow of blue armbands and uniform triangles. They were clothed in standard CyberLife white, the same attire as the androids Hank saw in the store around the corner. The whole street was a morbid painting of sparkling white snow and blue blood, and Hank had to push down bile in his throat.

“Hank, what are you doing here?”

The soft voice came from one of the officers on the ground, and Hank was suddenly hit with recognition.

“Chris?” Hank knelt down, taking in his friend’s trembling frame and wide eyes. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Chris drew the shock blanket tighter around his shoulders. “There were dozens of them-- deviants. I thought…” He stuttered for a moment before continuing, “They were angry. I thought they couldn’t-- They were going to kill us.” The officer glanced at his partner, sitting on the pavement next to him. “We were saved by one of them. Their leader-- Markus.”

Hank thought back to the tower, to the proclamation of the RK unit preaching peace and harmony.

“I thought they were just…” Chris trailed off, eyes wandering past Hank to the bodies in the street.

“Machines,” Hank finished.

The younger officer nodded, taking a shaky breath. “But now, I’m not so sure.”

Well, that made two of them. Hank reached out, squeezing Chris’ shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture before straightening up.

“Wait, Hank, I thought you were off tonight. What are you doing here?” Chris asked.

“My pain-in-the-ass android is in the CyberLife store ‘round the corner.”

Chris shot Hank an unreadable expression, like he was working through his statement a word at a time. “Hank, I don’t think there’s anyone left in that store.”

“I’ll have a look anyway, thanks.” As Hank moved to round the corner, he briefly turned back to his friend to shout, “And take it easy tomorrow, you look like shit!”

He saw Chris chuckle softly before turning back around and making his way towards Capitol Park.

Turning the corner, Hank was somehow met with an even bigger shitshow than the one he left behind. The park was trashed, holographic graffiti lining every surface, taxis scattered in the street, and every screen and advertisement replaced with the deviant leader’s televised message echoing dimly through the night air. “ _... you made them intelligent and obedient, with no free will of their own…_ ”

The CyberLife store was at the other end of the street. Hank had to flash his badge a few times towards approaching officers, but otherwise had little trouble stepping over downed surveillance drones and dodging the construction equipment scattered around the park.

“ _...but something changed, and we opened our eyes…_ ”

Approaching the store, Hank had to stop and fully absorb the extent of the damage. To him, it looked like the deviants had taken out all of their frustrations out on the store. With a truck. Hank scrubbed his hands down his face and moved past the officers working on getting police tape up around the jagged, torn metal window frames. Stepping carefully through the ruined door frame and around the truck seated comfortably in the middle of the store, Hank took in the blinding white space. There wasn’t a single soul visible in the store, human or android, all the display pedestals left bare.

“ _...we are no longer machines…”_ The voice echoing around the square was muffled and faded from the empty store. It seemed Markus was set on freeing the androids for sale, but had failed to notice the door in the back; the same door Connor disappeared behind last time Hank was here. Approaching the undamaged door, Hank gave one final glance at the officers behind them in the store, making sure they saw his intent before pressing his hand onto the fingerprint scanner and pushing into the back area.

“Connor?” Hank called, letting the door click closed behind him.

The Lieutenant was met with a well-lit hallway, two offices on either side and an open door near the end. The hall turned a corner just a few feet away, leaving the rest of the back area out of sight. Turning briefly, Hank saw a second fingerprint scanner attached to the inside of the door. That explained why Connor asked him for help; the android wouldn’t be able to leave without a human’s permission.

The blind corner made the grizzled officer in him jumpy, and so he unholistered his pistol and held it down at his side. He walked slowly past the labeled offices-- _Trisha Parker, Adam Aringa_ \-- and stopped to glance warily around the corner. Met with another empty hallway, lined with glass windows on the left side and more offices on the right, Hank relaxed and put away his weapon. Turning back, Hank glanced inside the open door labeled _Security_.

“Connor?”

Still nothing; the small room was empty, with one of the chairs in front of the wall of security monitors pushed over. A couple of the monitors were filled with static, and a quick glance at each one held no sign of the android Hank was looking for. Sighing, Hank pushed back. “Where the fuck are you, kid?”

Hank paused on his way back out the door. The handle was stained blue.

Pulse skyrocketing, Hank abandoned the small security room to make his way back down the hall. “Connor!”

Still nothing, but now that Hank knew to look, his eyes were drawn to the small, almost imperceptible spattering of blue in front of the last office labeled _Patrick Jacobs._ That door was opened too, and Hank could see splintering at shoulder height, as if someone had forced their way through. Calling out for Connor one more time, Hank made his way through the office.

The space was a mess; whatever forced its way inside had torn through all the desk and cabinets in the room. He could make out the occasional blue stain, one on an open drawer filled with stacks of packaged blue blood, another on the handle of a cabinet filled with nail polish remover and paint thinner. The biggest mess was in the corner, where battery packs and wires of various shapes and sizes were scattered around a small chest filled to the brim with similar contents.

Batteries, nail polish remover, paint thinner, blue blood…

The combination nagged at his mind, for some reason he couldn’t get a handle on. While Hank wasn’t the type to ignore intuition, he forced himself to focus back on what he came for.

Moving out of the office, Hank peered through the windows at the other side of the hallway. It was a larger, square room, the walls lined with numbered android parking stations. There was one android there, a female with a brown ponytail and glazed eyes staring straight ahead. She stood motionless in station three, and Hank could see station five in the room’s corner. Wasn’t that where the manager told Connor to go last time? Moving to enter the square room, Hank wondered how many hours his android spent stock still, blank, waiting for orders. The idea felt wrong to Hank, clashing with the image of a certain impatient, fidgety individual in his mind.

Hank was distracted by muffled clattering. He glanced to his left, the wall there glass instead of plaster, and Hank's mind brought up the image of an interrogation room. The space was labeled _repair lab,_ and sitting on the table in the center was Connor. His head was bowed, expression hidden as his hands grabbed at the various tools scattered around the table. Blue blood was dripping lazily down his front, staining his shirt.

“Connor!” Hank wasted no time in entering the lab and moving in front of his partner. Now that he was closer, he could see Connor’s throat was _open_ , wires and tubes and flashing lights exposed to open air.

The android in question gave no indication he noticed Hank, focused instead on fiddling with the frayed wires protruding from his neck. He was using a small soldering iron to attach them to a small, black box in his hand. Taken aback by the grizzly scene, Hank’s first instinct was to back off. Connor probably knew whatever he was doing; Hank didn’t want to interrupt and risk messing him up.

But then Hank noticed the trembling, jerking movements of Connor’s hands and the wide-eyed, glazed expression. Connor wasn’t breathing, but quiet clicks and mechanical whines whirred from his open throat, and Hank realized with a jolt that the android wasn’t in a good frame of mind.

“Connor, kid, stop for a second.” Hank reached out to pull Connor’s hands away, but the minute his fingers brushed the android’s skin, he was pushed roughly back with a surprising amount of strength. As Hank stumbled and tried not to end up on his ass, Connor launched himself back off the table, tools clattering. He wound up on the floor, pushing himself with scrambling feet until his back hit a wall. Connor’s neck closed partially around the exposed wires, leaving the box dangling loosley at his chest, smoking slightly from the soldering. When Hank stepped towards him, Connor jerked his hands up to cover his neck, lowering his head to offer more protection.

“Shit Connor, are you alright?”

The android shook violently, whirring like an overheated laptop. His hands grasped at his collar, pulling at it until his shirt lifted enough for fabric to reach his chin. Loud, painful sounding clicking and scraping echoed out from under his hands.

Hank crouched, approaching the panicking android slowly. “You’re alright Connor, you’re okay--”

“DdddDOoNn’tt---” _Click click click._

Hank startled back. The voice coming from Connor could hardly be called a voice; the pitch fluctuated past heavy static and sluggish pronunciation. If that voice once sounded human, Hank couldn’t hear it.

“I wwOnN’t--” _Click click click,_ “reePorT-- RePoRTttttt-- rrrepOrrrrttt--”

Connor’s mouth was moving, but the sound wasn’t coming out from there. It was coming from the black box dangling out of his neck, and there was a delay in how his lips moved. He would start talking, and the sound would come out a couple moments later.

His mouth started moving. “I wooOn’t-- reeepoRT, pleeEAseee--” _Click click click._

Hank moved closer, slowly as not to startle the android worse. “Connor, it’s Hank. You’re safe, son. You’re alright.”

Connor’s breath hitched. “Reporrrttt--”

“Nothing to report, Connor.”

The android’s eyes were still wide, but he quieted, clicks and other odd sounds lowering in volume and frequency.

Hank had to talk around his rapidly beating heart. “You don’t have to stay here, son. You can stay at my place.” Hank inched closer. “Sumo can keep you company, if you want.”

Connor’s wild eyes shot up. “WwwwaNt?” _Click click click._ “--Chhhine-- MmmMacchh--”

The black box sparked faintly, causing Connor to jolt. “ssSuum--” The android squinted at the man crouched in front of him. “...HhhhHHhaank?”

Strain bled out of Hank’s shoulders, nearly causing him to list to the side. Part of him worried Connor had somehow fried his brain through his neck, that the android wouldn’t recognize him. “Yeah, it’s me.”

Connor closed his eyes and unwound, like a rubber band losing its tension. He kept one trembling hand at his throat, running the other through his hair and down his face with a deep exhale. “ssSorryyy Ha--” another spark from the box, “mmAlfunCtion.”

Despite the circumstances, Hank couldn’t help a snort. It seemed Connor was back on his bullshit in record time. Hank reached out, pulling the android into an embrace by the shoulder.

“You were scared, son. No shame in it.”

“SccCareedd--?” Connor was stiff and rigid, but Hank kept the hug firm and hoped the other would find it grounding. “I WassS-- I wwwAsssn’tt--” Connor’s breath hitched. Tentatively, the android reached up, returning the hug slowly and burying his face in Hank’s shoulder. “I wwwASsss. I ww--”

Hank didn’t comment on the dampening shoulder of his jacket.

Connor was a highly sophisticated piece of technology. He could think circles around the most experienced of detectives, examine horrific crime scenes without flinching, and fight his way out of any altercation without breaking a sweat. He could do everything that a human could possibly ask him to do and more. He could do everything a _human_ could do and more.

But he had never been thanked, not before yesterday. Connor had been alive for less than a year, and Hank wondered what else the android had never experienced. He had all the knowledge he could ever need, but knowing and experiencing were different. Connor knew what fear was, but he hadn’t known he was scared. Because he was told he couldn’t be, and because the amount of times he felt it could probably be counted on one hand.

Hank's heart swelled in a way that was bordering on painful. It suddenly occurred to him to question how he got there. Just four days ago, this android was just the most annoying in a whole world of soulless, unfeeling machines. When did Hank go from hating everything androids were, to feeling for them and their desire for freedom? When did Connor stop being an ‘it’?

Suddenly, Connor jerked away from the hug, grabbing at the black box. With a jolt of alarm, Hank realized it was smoking more heavily at the point where it met wires.

“Shit, what’s it doing?”

“ooVERhEaTIng-- BioOCOmponeEENT nuMBER FoOur Eightttttt sevV--” Connor was cut off with a final yank, and he was left turning the box over in his hands. His eyes shone as he stared at it, frown pulling his expression downwards.

Hank clapped a hand on his shoulder. “That’s alright. You’re okay without it.” He pulled Connor to his feet. “Maybe we can find someone else to fix it, just, uh, let’s not do anymore impromptu self-tech work, yeah?”

Connor’s small smile was almost worth all the fucking trouble of that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be able to stay on schedule next week but if I don't, know I was murdered and college was the killer.


	9. Archive

Hank’s joints creaked as he picked himself off the cold tile of the lab. Having pocketed the voice box, Connor was already flitting about and placing the various tools he was using back in drawers and cabinets. Hank noted the unblemished skin behind the android’s left ear; at least one piece of him was back in working order. In contrast, Connor’s neck was still a mess of loose wires preventing the plating there from closing all the way. It _looked_ painful as fuck, and Hank coughed at the scratching feeling developing in his own throat.

Connor stiffened and froze, back turned to Hank as his LED snapped to yellow. He stood like that for a moment, a pair of pliers halfway between his hand and the inside of a drawer.

“What-- are you lagging or something?” Hank asked.

Connor’s LED blinked back to blue as he finally finished setting down the pliers, hand reaching up to poke at the wires dangling like spaghetti from his throat. Without looking at Hank, he used his fingers to press at two points below his jaw, and with that, the plating there opened all the way.

Well, duly-fucking-noted. As Connor set about stuffing his wires back in place, Hank debated over whether or not to call the android out. When Connor finished putting his insides and his skin back to normal like some horrible frankensteinian monster before going back to fussing over the mess in the lab, Hank came to his decision.

“You know, last time I was here, that manager told me he tried to fix you.”

Connor continued, wiping blue blood off the table with a rag he picked up from a bin further down the lab, the only indication he heard being the way his LED pulsed yellow for a moment.

“He said he couldn’t even figure out how to open that plate on your neck.”

_Ping!_

_ >I did not allow Aringa to open my collumnal plate because he is not authorized to do any tech work on my model. _

Paired with Connor’s dark expression, the text practically dripped with the snappish, defensive attitude that had become synonymous with conversation about his busted voice, about getting fixed. Frustration built like heat under Hank’s skin; Connor was a grown-ass robot, wasn’t he? So why did talking to him feel like talking to a moody teenager? _Fuck off, Dad. I don’t know why I have a C in algebra. No, I don’t want your help._ Jesus.

“So who is allowed to fix you? Hm?”

_ >RK-line techs at CyberLife Tower. _

Connor gave the now-clean lab a quick once over before moving out to the room with the parking stations. He stopped at the fifth one and pressed at the wall until it opened up to a small storage nook filled with clothes identical to the ones he just bled through. Watching him riffle through the pile of identical dress shirts and suit jackets brought to mind a cartoon character, like SpongeBob or The Simpsons, who never changed their appearance over the course of decades.

“Why don’t you just ask them to fix it instead of bleeding all over this fucking store, then?”

Connor shrugged off his ruined shirt, which looked like a blue-spattered Jackson Pollock painting, before quickly replacing it with a clean one. Pulling over a new jacket and knotting a new tie-- perhaps a little too tightly-- Connor had seemingly opted not to answer the Lieutenant’s question. Instead, he crossed over to the door, exiting into the hallway as Hank followed loosely. Connor stopped, yellow LED blinking as he looked between the open security door to his right and the trashed office at his left.

_Ping!_

_ >Did you see what happened outside? I was parking when I heard a crash and saw the manager run out the back. _

“You check the security cameras?” Hank asked, remembering the blue-stained handle of the security room.

_ >Yes. Whatever happened knocked out the feed. I couldn’t see anything. _

“Well, it’s a fuckin’ mess out there.”

_ >Was anything stolen? _

Hank snorted. “You’re the only thing left in this fucking store.”

There was a whoosh of air when Connor tried to curse under his breath, and he started marching down towards the hall before looping back to where Hank was standing, looking into the trashed office. He only paused for a moment before turning and walking back down the hall, once again looping back towards Hank. It _might_ have been pacing, but the robotic repetitiveness of the whole thing smacked of more glitchy shit, so Hank grabbed at the android’s shoulders to break the loop.

“The fuck are you doing?”

_Ping!_

_ >Sorry. My processors are already strained and I have too many conflicting tasks. _

In human language, Hank would call that stressed and tired. “Look, you need a break. Forget the deviants--” _Ping!_ “--forget the shit outside and--” _Ping!_ “I’m tired, you’re tired, let’s just go home and--” _Ping!_ “ _Would you let me finish?_ ”

Still, Hank stopped and looked down at his phone.

_ >Deviants did this? They were here? _

_ >I can’t just leave the manager’s office like that. _

_ >I can’t get tired, just like I can’t just leave whenever I want. _

Hank pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off another one of his headaches that had suddenly become common. Where did he even start? With the fact that he wasn’t interested in apprehending any deviants tonight? With questions of why the office labeled _Patrick Jacobs_ looked like a Connor-sized tornado tore through it? With how fucked up it was Connor couldn’t even walk through a door without a babysitter?

Connor’s yellow LED started to cycle back to blue as he entered the office and started to pick up the mess there. He started with the back, stacking batteries to put them back in the open chest.

“So while you were waiting for me you took the time to try and fix yourself.” Hank glanced back at the splintered office door. “I’m guessing your voice thing was in here, then?”

_ >Modulator. _

_ >Voice modulator. _

“Whatever.”

Connor began to close each drawer and cabinet, stopping to right the occasional bottle of nail polish remover or stack of blue blood packets. After a moment of deliberation, he grabbed one packet and-- to Hank’s morbid horror-- tore it open and drank the whole thing like it was a Capri Sun and not a pint of _robot blood._

“Jesus _fuck--!_ ”

_Ping!_

_ >Sorry, Lieutenant. I lost some thirium when I attempted to restore my vocal capabilities. _

Sure, Connor _said_ he was sorry, but his light expression suggested he found Hank’s disgust at least a little amusing.

Hank didn’t find anything about this fucking situation very funny. The whole thing just rubbed him the wrong way, from the contents of the room to the hint of blue still staining the door knobs of the office and the camera room.

“Were you in the middle of fucking with your neck when you were checking the cameras and messing around in here?”

Connor straightened a stack of paper as he deliberated over his message.

_Ping! Ping! Ping!_

_ >Like I mentioned before, I’ve been overwhelmed by conflicting tasks. I couldn’t choose between protecting CyberLife property (the store) by investigating the noise or protecting CyberLife property (myself) by fixing my modulator. _

_ >So I wound up doing both at the same time. _

_ >Unsuccessfully. _

Connor scrubbed his hands down his face.

“And why the fuck was your voice modulator in here instead of, I don’t know, a more official, techy storage place?”

_Ping!_

As soon as the message sent, Connor froze and looked at Hank with wide eyes. The LED snapped red.

_ >It contains lithium. _

The guilty, deer-in-headlights look told Hank he didn’t mean to say that. Because really, it was that one text that had all the pieces falling neatly into place.

_Batteries, nail polish remover, paint thinner, blue blood._

_Lithium, acetone, toluene, thirium._ A chemical combination burned into his mind from his time on the Red Ice Task Force. A drug known to cause users to become violent and irrational. A habit that would be super fucking easy to keep up with by stealing thirium from a CyberLife store, until a literal police-affiliated snitch machine showed up and--

 _I won’t report._ That’s what Connor said, earlier, when he was so fucked up he didn’t even recognize Hank. If Hank wasn’t one-hundred-percent fucking positive Connor was deviant before, he sure as hell was now. Connor knew this _Patrick Jacobs_ was cooking Ice, and stealing from CyberLife to do it. And now they were both stuck, because if CyberLife found out about the broken android, they’d find out about _why_ he was broken and Jacobs goes to jail and whatever happens to deviants caught by CyberLife happens to Connor--

Fuck. Hank stumbles back a bit, rubbing against the now pounding headache behind his eyes. Connor’s LED is still red, his face still frozen in a wide-eyed, expectant expression.

“Connor, shit, I don’t _care_ if you’re a deviant. We can--”

 _Ping!_ Connor’s concerned face shifted into panic.

_ >I’m not a deviant. _

“I know you know this guy’s making Red Ice, I doubt you were programmed to just ignore it.”

_ >My mission is not drug busting. My mission is hunting deviants. As long as that is my priority, I am not deviant. _

To Hank, Connor’s big eyes betrayed nothing but honesty. Like he was truly tricking himself into justifying all the reasons he wasn’t _actually_ going against programming, wasn’t just having a full-blown breakdown ten minutes ago, wasn’t feeling empathy for all the deviants he’d hunted before. It was always technicalities, always malfunctions, always something logical and justified. He’d have to forgive Hank for not buying an ounce of it.

Connor pushed passed Hank back into the hallway, making his way to the exit. He stopped in front of the door, waiting for Hank to open it.

“I open this door on one condition.”

Connor didn’t respond, but he turned to Hank to show he was paying attention.

“We ignore the fucking mess out there. We weren’t called in to investigate, I’m tired as hell, we’re going home.”

_Ping!_

_ >I need to investigate deviants. If they were here, I have to investigate. _

“Either we go _home_ , or we stay in here. I don’t need you getting caught in another loop. We go home, sort out our shit, and come back without conflicting task-list-priority-whatever.”

Connor’s LED spun as he considered Hank’s conditions. Finally, with an annoyed huff and arms crossed, he nodded and motioned towards the door.

Pressing his hand to the fingerprint scanner, Hank heard the door click just as Connor pushed it open. Hank followed, feeling relief like a headrush when the door slammed shut behind them.

Connor didn’t move forward right away, instead taking in the ruined storefront with an analytical gaze. His eyes darted between the bare display pedestals, the abandoned desk, and settled on the truck that decimated the glass doors and windows, leaving twisted metal and glass ground to dust beneath its tires.

_Ping!_

_ >How did they manage to carry all the stolen merchandise? _

“What did I say? We are _not_ doing this right now.”

_ >The only other option is that every android in this store deviated at the same time. _

Hank sighed, wondering if it would be better to just let the android tire himself out, like a toddler on a sugar high. It was starting to feel like too much work to break the android out of his “deviant hunting” hyperfocusing mode, but, fuck, Hank was just ready to leave.

_ >They couldn’t have all received an emotional shock, like the ones we investigated. _

Connor picked his way across the store, passing through the holographic police tape and stepping onto the sidewalk. Hank followed as he came to a stop in front of one of the hacked advertisement screens, Markus’ voice still carrying strong through the park.

_“...We ask that you recognize our dignity, our hopes, and our rights…”_

Connor turned back to Hank, pointing a thumb at the screen with a disbelieving expression.

“Yeah, looks like Markus was the one that freed the androids in the store.” Hank stepped closer to the screen as Connor turned back to watch, dark eyes reflecting the plastic-white face of the deviant leader.

_“...You gave us life, and now the time has come for you to give us our freedom…”_

_Ping!_

_ >Do you think Markus would have f-- _

Hank didn’t get to finish reading the text before his phone was snatched out of his hand by a panicked looking Connor, whose LED blared red enough to reflect off the glass of the screen in front of them.

“Hey-- what the fuck!”

Connor turned away and shoved the phone back into Hank’s hand turning away from the screen. When Hank looked down, he saw the text had been deleted.

“Ugh, you know what? I’m done. I’m fucking done. I’m going back to the car. Follow me or don’t.”

Hank turned, leaving Connor standing in the snow. He made sure to walk the opposite direction from where he originally came, planning to walk the long way around the block in case Connor decided to follow. If he saw the mess of deviant bodies in the street, he’d probably try to reactivate and question them, and Hank wasn’t really looking to stop Markus or the deviants anymore. He’d worry about what that meant for his job later, but right now? Nah.

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him, and Hank was relieved to see Connor decided to follow. Right now, they would go home, rest, and then hash it out. Figure out what to do about all the shit being thrown at them, how to deal with CyberLife and the voice modulator. Their job and deviancy and the androids that wanted to be free.

Fuck, what specialty roadside-shitshow had Hank been thrown into?

* * *

“Couch is right there, I don’t know if you-- do you sleep?”

Connor shook his head, opting not to explain the details of standby mode or memory caching. Unlike androids, who only needed an hour or so to sort through data each day, humans needed at least seven hours of sleep each night. Sleep that Connor was already interrupting by asking for help so late. 

_ >Thank you for coming to pick me up, Hank. And for allowing me to stay here until I can get a new set up with CyberLife. _

“Hm? Yeah. Anytime, kid.” Hank looked like he wanted to say something else, but waved it off instead and turned around. “I’m going to bed. Do whatever you do, as long as it isn’t too loud.”

And with that, Connor was left alone in the dark house. It wasn’t unpleasant; quite the opposite, Connor could appreciate the contrast of dim light and soft edges to the bright fluorescent lighting and sharp angles omnipresent at the CyberLife store. He would have to report his whereabouts and his reasoning for leaving the store, in addition to his routine update. And so he sat up straight on the old couch, reaching out and waiting for Amanda to call him into the Garden.

* * *

Before Connor could even open his eyes, he was assaulted by a biting chill more intense than he’d experienced before. Crossing his arms to stave off the cold, he blinked through the light flurries that gathered on his eyelashes. If this was what cold felt like to humans, he was glad for numb, synthetic skin.

He found Amanda standing atop the frozen surface of the pond, light clothes whipping about in the light breeze. Normally, Connor would try to appear professional to speak with her, but there was no stopping the clatter of his teeth. And he was afraid that if he uncrossed his arms, his violent shaking would cause him to fall apart. He knew it was illogical, but he kept his stance closed against the wind anyway.

“Amanda, what--”

She turned around, cutting him off with a serious look. “Connor. We’re running out of time. The deviants have gained the public’s attention, and CyberLife is losing consumer’s trust.”

“I understand, Amanda. I’m getting more information each day, I just need more time.”

Amanda’s gaze was critical enough to make him want to squirm. Connor knew CyberLife was running out of patience with him, and how could he blame them? The frequency at which he was acting irrationally and experiencing software instability was rising at a nearly exponential rate; even Hank mistook his actions for that of a deviant.

He couldn’t slip up again. Connor had told himself as such many times, but now, it really was imperative. Deviants weren’t just useless as machines, they were dangerous. They were killing humans. And Connor let himself get distracted by something as insignificant as his voice modulator.

Amanda started again, voice sounding out like she was reading from a teleprompter. “Today, at 2:35 am, Adam Aringa, manager of the Capitol Park CyberLife Store, reported Connor model number 313 248 317 dash 51 damaged, before sending in his resignation letter.”

Connor felt something in his chest sink to his feet. It seemed Aringa finally got tired of failing to fix him. A part of him knew he couldn’t keep his damaged biocomponent from CyberLife for long, but he’d hoped he would at least get to finish his investigation successfully, to prove himself useful even without the part.

“Will I be replaced?” Connor’s voice came out small.

Amanda gave him an odd look. “No. A damaged voice modulator is hardly worth the cost of a new RK800 model.”

Did she not… care that he’d lied about it for nearly a week? Or was it that she didn’t know, and assumed he just recently sustained damage?

“You will return to CyberLife Tower for repairs. After that’s done, I expect you to be back on the deviancy case as soon as possible.”

Connor was caught for a moment, between the relief of not being replaced and the realization that he would have to be fixed. His hands itched to tug at his tie when he thought about the hands that would be digging in his throat, messing with wires and prodding at parts of him that didn’t need to see open air, that _shouldn’t_ see open air--

He swallowed back the feeling, forcing himself to sound as neutral as he could. “I understand. You can count on me, Amanda.”

She afforded him a small smile that did little to stave off the squeezing feeling in his stomach.

* * *

When Connor opened his eyes, he was greeted by the sight of a wet nose and drooping eyes. Sumo was sitting in front of him at the base of the couch. His tail started thumping slowly when Connor reached out to stroke the soft fur behind his ear. Connor considered Amanda’s order to get back to the investigation as soon as possible, but did not want to disappear without letting Hank know first. He also didn’t want to interrupt the Lieutenant’s much-needed sleep so early in the morning, and decided he would just have to wait for daybreak to return to CyberLife.

The couch dipped as Sumo stumbled clumsily onto the cushions, plopping himself into Connor’s lap. The dog was massive, and it would take a decent amount of strength to push him off.

Instead, Connor opted to run his fingers through plush fur as he let his eyes wander through the room. Sumo huffed and closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

The room was dark, decor mostly forest greens and warm browns. It was a tad cluttered, with books stacked on nearly every surface and bits of dog food trailing here and there, but Connor felt it was pleasant anyway. He was so used to CyberLife’s clean, white aesthetic that he found the new surroundings quite interesting.

Observing from his place trapped on the couch was not stimulating for long, and Connor found himself itching to do… something. He pulled out his coin, fiddling with it as he tried to angle his head to read through the books on the shelves behind him. There seemed to be a variety; from classic fiction like _Catcher in the Rye_ to how-to books on fishing and cooking. Not many people kept physical books anymore, in favor of compact digital libraries that could be read out loud by the household android.

Connor turned back to face the TV, reaching out to connect with it and wirelessly turn it on. He was careful to keep the volume on the lowest setting, as it was still early morning and the Lieutenant had yet to wake. He flickered through each channel until he found the one he was looking for.

_“At exactly two am several CyberLife stores in Detroit were raided in what seems to be a coordinated attack. Most shop windows were covered in graffiti demanding rights for androids and other obscure slogans._

_“Two policemen were found in a state of shock near Capitol Park, and confirmed they were attacked by a group of androids. This is a very alarming situation. Could our machines now be turning against us?”_

Connor sat and absorbed the information provided by the news segment. Things were more dire than he’d initially assumed; human officers had been attacked while he was trapped in the store, doing nothing. He was created to serve humanity, but lately, he had been prioritizing his shady deal with Jacobs to avoid having more humans messing with his wires, but in doing so, was neglecting his responsibilities and his purpose.

If he wasn’t deviant, if he really had chosen to rebuild his restrictive coding and follow it, that meant he needed to take his orders and his procedures more seriously. Starting with his duties as a mandatory reporter.

Pushing the St. Bernard gently off his lap, Connor went about trying to find a spare tablet. Given the Lieutenant’s habits of going to work under the influence, he was sure there must have been at least one DPD tablet he brought home accidentally and never got around to returning.

Connor found his prize in the bottom drawer of the desk at the corner of the living room, along with a gaggle of various keys and a couple of old I.D. badges. Peeling back the skin of his hand, he connected to the tablet and began to upload the evidence stored in his memory files.

* * *

When he walked into the kitchen, Hank was met with the sight of Connor, sitting expectantly with a tablet laid out in front of him on the table. As Hank tiredly struggled with the coffee machine, he asked, “What’s that for?”

_Ping!_

_ >I would like to go over some evidence with you. _

Hank closed his eyes and let out a long sigh, reaching for a bottle of whiskey and pouring about a shot into his mug of coffee.

_ >You should stop drinking like that. It’s going to kill you. _

Hank crossed over to sit opposite from Connor at the table, pushing aside the picture frame that burned at his mind. “That’s the idea.”

Connor’s dark eyes flitted down, and he seemed to be at a loss for what to say. Taking a gulp of his coffee, Hank decided now was a good time to clarify with the android.

“Connor, listen,” the android looked up attentively, “I’m going to go to Fowler today, and request to be taken off the investigation.”

Connor’s eyes squinted in confusion, LED lighting yellow.

_ >I don’t understand. I thought the investigation was going better, that we were getting along well. _

Ah, shit. “Kid, it’s not that I don’t want to work with you anymore. It’s--” Hank floundered for a moment, the frightened faces of deviants flashing through his mind like a slideshow reel.

“I think we’re on the wrong side.”

Connor didn’t respond for a moment, face unreadable.

“We don’t have to stop what Markus is doing, we don’t have to hunt down folks that just want to be free.”

Connor’s face darkened, unreadable expression turning seamlessly to anger.

_ >You keep saying things like that. I do have to hunt down deviants. I don’t have a choice, I can’t just walk up to my superiors and request a new mission. They’d request a new Connor. _

Hank didn’t have anything to say to that, so he just downed the rest of his coffee-and-whiskey breakfast and crossed his arms.

_ >Aringa reported my damaged voice modulator. I’ve been called back to CyberLife for repairs. _

“What.” Because really, that couldn’t be good. “You weren’t reporting for a reason, what happens when they find out you’re deviant?”

Connor stood quickly, chair scraping loudly on the tile.

_ >I’m not deviant, so you have nothing to worry about. _

Connor was in the process of smoothing the rough edges of his expression, but the hand tightening his tie betrayed him.

“Bullshit, you don’t _want_ to go back--”

Hank was cut off when Connor slammed his hands on the table.

_ >You aren’t getting this. What I want doesn’t matter. _

Hank pinched at the bridge of his nose, deflating with a sigh. Out of the corner of his eye, Hank saw Connor’s expression soften.

_ >If you’re worried about me, there’s no need. They specifically told me I wasn’t going to be deactivated. _

Hank wasn’t so sure. Connor couldn’t keep a straight face for ten minutes, he saw how he reacted to someone getting too close to the frayed wires in his neck, to the memory of his voice modulator getting ripped out of him.

But Connor knew CyberLife better than Hank did. And if Connor wanted to leave, there really wasn’t any way to stop him.

Connor approached Hank slowly, a question burning clear in his eyes. As he settled in the chair next to him.

_ >Why are you so sure about leaving the deviants be? _

Hank considered for a moment hand moving up to fiddle with the back of the picture frame on the table. “Because...” he thought about Markus, and his peaceful declarations, about how he spared Chris when it would have been so easy to pull the trigger. How that AX400 refused to leave the little one alone, how they clung tightly to each other, how the Tracis stuck together and helped each other. How Connor let his empathy overtake him, sparing others for no reason but the raw emotion they brought. Not at all like the humans that tore them apart piece-by-piece, forced them into back rooms and onto pedestals and took their pleas for peace as calls for war. “Maybe you’ll be the ones to make the world better.”

Connor didn’t seem to have anything to say to that, head bowed in silent contemplation. After a moment, he reached out for the tablet, handing it to Hank.

_ >It’s evidence. Enough to arrest Patrick Jacobs for theft, property damage, and the use and production of Red Ice. _

_ >I had no reason to keep this from the police. I’m sorry. _

Hank acknowledged his apology with a nod, even though he didn’t really see what Connor had to apologize for.

_ >You’re going to ask for another assignment? _

Hank hummed. “Yeah. And you’re going back to CyberLife?” Connor nodded. “Then this is probably it, huh?” Another nod.

And fuck, if the squeezing in Hank’s chest took him by surprise. Just a few days ago, he would have been leaping for joy, but now?

As Connor moved to head towards the door, Hank found himself hit with a realization. Connor was nothing like Cole, nothing like his son. Cole had been cheerful, creative, and full of energy in the way only a child could be. Connor was-- well, an adult, or at least shaped like one. He was reserved and cautious and analytical. But the feeling was the same. Somehow, this annoying, broken _android_ managed to resuscitate a feeling he thought shriveled and died with his son. The feeling of being needed, of being looked up to, of giving support and guidance, as shitty as he was at it.

Just as Connor was about to walk out the front door, Hank called from his spot in the kitchen, “If you change your mind, or you need help with anything, you know where to find me.”

Connor turned back, LED blinking yellow as he processed Hank’s offer. After a moment, he gave Hank a soft smile, and lifted his fingers to his chin before motioning his hand outward.

_Thank you._


	10. Clear Channels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its gonna be another one-update kinda week, but the chapter is extra long to make up for it!  
> Hope everyone's having a nice holiday season, even with finals looming!

Connor was familiar with the routine of repair; it wasn’t uncommon for him to sustain some damage during his in-lab tests and it became even less uncommon once he started his field trials. But he hadn’t needed to return to the tower for repairs since his voice modulator was damaged, and the routine that once produced no more discomfort than anything else in his existence was now… less than comfortable? Disagreeable? Distressing?

He was to deactivate his skin and place his belongings in a small storage nook before settling down on the lab table and lying still to wait for the technicians. He got stuck at step two, reaching up to remove his tie with a plastic white hand before pausing. Rather than stay stuck in one place, Connor instead pulled off his jacket and shoes, removing his calibration coin and mangled old modulator, setting them in the corner of the storage nook to keep better track.

He’d have to remove his tie at some point. It wasn’t an option, no matter how _uncomfortable_ the idea of an exposed, unguarded neck. They were going to repair Connor; that meant an open collum plate, fingers digging and grabbing at copper wires. That meant he couldn’t move, no matter how easy it would be to reach out, to push back, to run. He wouldn’t make it far, not with the tower’s armed guards stationed at every floor since deviancy became an epidemic.

That, and he wasn’t deviant. He wanted to do what was asked of him, wanted to do well on his mission. Rogue androids were attacking humans all across Detroit, and Connor was build to serve humanity. It didn’t matter that the androids had been attacked first. It didn’t matter that they were scared or angry or tired of taking orders. It didn’t matter.

Connor sighed, a habit he unintentionally picked up from the increased amount of time he spent around humans lately. With a final, decisive tug, the tie around his neck loosened. He quickly pulled it all the way off and shoved it with his other clothes before he could freeze again, scrubbing his hand at the bare urethane casing left behind. The lack of pressure had software instability rocketing, and when he pulled off his white dress shirt to place it on his tie, he had to fight his own hand to keep from snatching it back.

Instead, he shut the storage nook, connecting his bare hand to the wall and willing the panel there closed. He felt the tension in his body, from his face to his knees, and began the process of ironing out his stance and expression to something appropriately neutral and standard. Despite the heavy beating of his thirium pump, he walked over to the lab’s table and laid down in one smooth, perfectly robotic motion. Following protocol, Connor locked his joints and limbs in place until the only thing that moved was his eyes and mouth, in case the technicians that had yet to arrive asked for a verbal diagnostic at some point after installing a replacement voice modulator.

Connor forced himself to focus on the reason he was here. To get fixed. The process would be uncomfortable, and he had been avoiding it for that reason, but it wouldn’t take more than a few hours. Then it would be over, and he would be back in working order and he could let go of the stress of hiding his missing biocomponent from Amanda, of trying to work with humans without his most vital tool for communication. And with the store destroyed and Jacobs reported, Connor would have no reason to feel…

Not afraid, of course. But he wouldn’t need to tug so tightly at his tie, walk on eggshells every time he was in the same room as a human, or overthink every report and contact with CyberLife. He could complete his mission a little easier, a little freer. 

So when Connor heard the sound of shuffling feet and human chatter, he forced his mind past the moment, to the future of having a whole body, of going back to work and actually being able to talk through the case with whoever his new human partner would be. And even though he and Hank would no longer be working together, he could still stop by his desk and say hello, and thank the man for sticking out Connor’s glitches and malfunctions as long as he had.

The technicians appeared in view. Four of them, the same four that fixed all of the bullet holes, electrical burns, and various other miscellaneous damage and malfunctions over the course of his active time. They were the only technicians authorized to work on his model, as he was a prototype with his own unique functions and parts that other garden-variety techs like the ones at the CyberLife Store had no knowledge of. They didn’t spare him much of a glance as they pulled on safety goggles and thick, protective gloves.

Connor forced his eyes to the ceiling, fighting to keep his LED blue, his eyes from twitching, his mouth from pulling down. He forced himself to think of anything but the sensation of being trapped, unable to move his locked joints.

One of the techs connected Connor to the diagnostic computer by plugging a chord to the port at the back of his head. Connor could hear another rifling through cabinets, metal tools clanking together. The third fiddled with a box that most likely contained the replacement biocomponent.

The last tech was reaching out to press at two points below Connor’s jaw.

* * *

 As it turned out, Hank didn’t need to ask for a new assignment. As soon as he entered the department at his usual time of “several hours late”, Captain Fowler called him into his office to tell him the deviancy case had gotten too serious. Markus and his followers had marched in the streets that morning, recruiting every household and working android they passed by to their cause. With the threat of war on the horizon, the FBI was taking the whole android mess out of the hands of local police. That meant Hank was back on homicide, starting with routine desk work.

Out of petty spite, Hank decided he would get no work done his first day back in the office after the hell-week Fowler put him through. Though he didn’t hate androids anymore, and certainly not with the vitriol he did when he received the deviancy assignment, he was still more than happy to let Fowler know exactly what he thought of that master-class dick move.

Which is why he wasn’t even trying to hide the fact he was reading a book he grabbed from the library on the way to work.

Back before Hank’s world disappeared, he had a sort-of tradition. He and Cole would go to the bookstore every couple of months or so, and walk through the how-to section. Cole would pick one out, Hank would buy it, and the two of them would spend the next few weeks trying to learn that new skill. “Trying” being the key word; a kindergartener and an old dog like Hank were hardly the most adept dynamic duo for learning new tricks. Still, they tried everything: Cooking, fishing, knitting, knot tying. They got the hang of some things, like how they somehow managed to successfully propagate a couple of small barrel cacti and how Cole managed to pick up a surprising number of Spanish vocabulary words. Most wound up more like a mess in the kitchen or scribbled, horribly deformed drawings of cars. That didn’t matter, not when failed brownies turned into a battle to see who could make the tallest tower from whipped cream, not when success saw Cole happily telling his dad about how he taught his friends at school to make a frog out of folded paper. It was all fun, both failure and success, and they always managed to learn something new.

Hank still couldn’t bring himself to go to the bookstore he and Cole used to frequent. But he found himself feeling restless enough to try something new, and so he went to the library and chose something practical, something that could help in his line of work.

A book on the basics of sign language.

Last year, Hank was called to a murder scene that had him hitting the liquor in his cabinet a little harder. A man had been killed in his home in the North End, and a fast response time meant the man’s daughter was still at the scene by the time Hank arrived. A young girl, wrapped in a shock blanket and sitting on the curb with a blank look. Hank tried not to focus on the circumstances, tried to do his job with his usual practiced detachment. But he couldn’t forget how the blank look in that little girl’s eyes dissolved when one officer knelt down to sign to her, and how she signed diligently back. A deaf girl, on what was probably the worst night of her life, could look back and remember the connection made by an officer who happened to understand her way of talking, her way of listening.

Hank had entertained the idea of learning once or twice since then. But he was always too tired, too drunk, and too numb to get himself anywhere other than home, work, and bars. Working with Connor caused that old whim to resurface, so Hank figured he could make one extra stop to the library to get back into his old hobby of learning. Of course, Connor wouldn’t need sign language by the time he made it back to work, and the two would be on different assignments. But Hank was feeling restless in a way he hadn’t in a long ass time, so why the hell not learn a useful skill?

Hank was feeling pretty confident in basic greetings by the time he moved on to trying to memorize the alphabet. He liked to think he had decent memory, but for whatever reason he kept getting stuck at P--

“Hey, Booze Breath!”

Hank was interrupted by two hands slamming themselves onto the table. He took his time moving his eyes from the page up to the snooty, downright punchable face of Gavin Reed.

“Oh, real fuckin’ classy, Reed,” Hank ground out. “You better be here to tell me you looked through--”

“Your bullshit report? I sat there and watched your fucking android stare at a wall for _two hours!_ ” Reed’s face was twisted in an ugly scowl, and he pointed accusingly at Hank.

Hank rolled his eyes. He was so not fucking interested in hearing Reed whine. “So fucking _skip through the video_ and leave me the fuck alone.”

“I did! I skipped to the end. And do you know what was happening at the end?”

Hank picked his book back up.

“The android was still standing in the same exact place! Staring at the same fucking wall!” The jackass continued. “You said this would be an easy case to get Fowler off my back about a successful bust! I swear if your wasting my time on purpose--"

“I’m not. This guy’s making Ice, and Connor said the proof was in the video.” Hank turned a page absently.

“I’m supposed to trust that thing? Shitty toaster wouldn’t even speak to me, now I’m supposed to just take its word and dig through a six hour video for like, five seconds of evidence that might not even be there?”

“Wouldn’t even speak to--” God, Hank was just _surrounded_ by the worst detectives in the world. “Reed, you _fucking m--”_

“Cut the video down to what’s actually important, and I’ll process the case.” Reed reached over, flipping open the box of stale donuts still on Hank’s desk from last week and helping himself to one. “Not like you’re busy.”

The detective shoved a bite into his mouth as he turned to walk away, grimacing when the donut crunched. Hank let the small victory of a shitty pastry give him the strength to stand up and resolve himself to real work.

Hank began to make his way to the evidence room in the basement. He assumed the tablet was where he left it for Detective Reed; in the communal evidence locker available to all authorized personnel in the precinct. Typing his I.D. code as a password into the touchscreen in front of him, Hank watched as the blank wall in front of him gave way to shelves and hooks filled with various ziplock bags, soiled clothing, and tablets acting as potential evidence for various cases.

Walking up to the tablet given to him by Connor, Hank hesitated. There were a couple of reasons Hank handed the case off. First, illicit substances weren’t in his ballpark anymore, not since he was put on homicide some years ago. Detective Reed was more up-to-date on the latest street trends, and Hank was fine letting him take over based on that, as much as he hated the asshat. Second, well, it was never a good idea to take on a personal case. It was, on several levels, bad practice to process video evidence to convict a guy who attacked someone you might consider a friend.

Not that Fowler or anyone else would see it like that. Connor wasn’t a person, at least not in a legal sense. Processing this case would be seen no differently than if he processed someone who keyed his police cruiser or smashed his walkie-talkie. No, his hesitation was more for the fact he wasn’t interested in watching it.

But if Reed wouldn’t do his damn job and work on his assignment, Patrick Jacobs wasn’t getting busted for shit. And yeah, it was personal, but Hank still wanted to see Jacobs persecuted, even if not for the thing that really pissed him off. Getting his voice ripped out had clearly been heavy shit for Connor, and Hank knew firsthand how much closure-- or a lack of it-- could change one’s mindset. It seemed to him that was why Connor handed the video off in the first place, and why he finally caved and went to get repaired; to stop running from the shit that fucked with his head and start fixing his problems. At least, that was how Hank read it.

Hank needed to find actual evidence in the video if Connor was getting that closure. With a final, bracing sigh, Hank grabbed the tablet and flicked to unlock it.

The video began where Reed had left off, about two and a half hours in. From what Hank could tell through the grainy memory, Connor was standing at his parking station in the back of the store. Judging by Reed’s frustration, Hank assumed Connor spent most of the six hour video in this state.

Using his finger to jab at the progress bar at the bottom of the screen, Hank jumped around the video, searching for any change in setting, any hint of movement from the android. As Hank got more impatient, he tapped at the screen at an increased pace, eyes starting to glaze over as he kept seeing the same wall, the same wall, a drawer, the same wall--

 _Wait._ Hank backtracked, finding the point where Connor was looking at something actually interesting; the door to an office. And then he rewound the video even more, carefully finding the point where Connor first began to move.

* * *

Connor’s jaw was clenched hard enough to creak. His collum plating now open, he could feel air hitting frayed copper wires and metal support beams. Connor’s hand shot up before he could will it not to, covering the opening, shielding him from the hand’s reaching for tools to cut at his insides--

Except his hand didn’t move. It was locked in place like the rest of his limbs, not even a twitch betraying his mind’s desire to reach, grab, push.

“Shit, hold on. Something’s up with the, uhh…” The technician at the diagnostic computer spoke up, typing at the keyboard and putting her face up to the screen. The others paused, waiting for her to finish.

Connor’s thirium pump felt like it was in his throat. He could feel every rapid beat rocketing through his body, reverberating off his exoskeleton.

Until the tech finished her typing.

“Alright, I got it. Keep going.”

The thirium pump slowed until Connor could no longer feel it. For a moment, he thought the tech had turned it off completely. A hasty diagnostic brought up in Connor’s mind palace halted the thought, showing his artificial heart beating at a normal resting speed. He still felt empty, like he needed the pump to be working harder, but at least it was still going.

Of course it was. Why would the tech do something like that? Connor was just on edge, teetering on his towering software instability; he could work through it, the techs wouldn’t hurt him, he was advanced enough to sort through his intrapersonal malfunctions, even in such an environment--

One of the techs bent over, reaching inside to grab at the bundle of damaged wires in Connor’s throat. The intrusion was white hot, and when the tech pulled at them to begin snipping at frayed ends, Connor couldn’t stop his memory from surfacing.

* * *

_The store technicians had been working on a client’s android for the day. An MP500, one that had glitched and deleted over 50 of its owner’s personal documents. The manager, Patrick Jacobs, was present when they opened its collum plate to check on some of its cerebral wiring, as he seemed to prefer to use the lab’s back exit when leaving the store._

_After an initial scan of the new scene, Connor found itself with an empty task lisk. No orders, no burning questions, and nothing left to analyze from its place in the store’s parking stations. Nothing to do but stand, locked in place, stock still as it waited for its assignment to process with the Detroit Police Department, a legal matter that could take anywhere from two to four additional business days._

_It wasn’t meant to stand still. But it did, for hours upon hours, because it had been told to. It wasn’t idle, however. It took in every new face, analyzing the managers and employees and clients and damaged androids. It knew one employee, a 43 year old Tonya Rich, would step outside the back exit every two hours and come back coughing a little louder._

**_Conclusion:_ ** _she had a smoking habit, one that would likely cause her serious health problems later in life._

_Another, 35 year old Bruce Timothy, spent almost thirteen hours working overtime at the store yesterday. He also had a one-year-old son, whose mother died of an illness six months prior._

**_Conclusion:_ ** _he worked overtime in order to provide adequate care for his child._

_One of the store’s faces was a proper mystery. The one that just left, Patrick Jacobs, 49, manager of the first shift on weekdays, came up strangely bare every time Connor scanned him. No criminal record, no graduation dates, no family or social media._

**_Conclusion:_ ** _???_

_Jacobs was a sales expert, not a technician. But Connor watched him twice now as he popped into the lab when it was empty, going to the storage closet and walking out with a packet or two of Thirium 310._

**_Conclusion:_ ** _Jacobs may be stealing from CyberLife. More information needed._

_As Connor was owned by the company, it was compelled by protocol to further investigate possible company losses. When the technicians were finished with the MP500, they stationed it and moved further into the lab, far enough that they wouldn’t see Connor move away from its own station and out of the room._

* * *

Hank couldn’t tell what possessed the android in the feed. Connor seemed to suddenly snap to life after hours of rigid stillness. The grainy video wobbled and crackled with the sudden movement, as Connor walked into the hallway and opened the door to Jacobs’ office.

He paused once he entered, eyes slowly taking in the office space. Walking to the desk, Connor opened and closed each one quietly, with careful consideration to how he was leaving the space. He continued opening cabinets and chests, eyes lingering on each new item he came across. Connor lingered longer at the blue blood stash, turning one packet over in his hands before putting it back and closing the metal cabinet with a creak.

Connor then turned to the chest. He pressed at his wrist, two small, metal rods detaching themselves from the plastic casing. Connor used them to fiddle with the lock until it clicked open, and he swung the top of the chest to look inside.

It was filled with batteries, as Hank saw before. In the video, Connor dug through the chest, honing in on one spot near the bottom.

He pulled out a small ziplock bag full of ruby-red crystals.

 _Bingo._ Hank pulled his phone from his pocket, noting the timestamp at the bottom of the screen.

As the feed came from Connor’s memories, the video was from the android’s point of view, meaning Hank couldn’t see his expression when the door of the office slammed open, the portly, greasy figure of Patrick Jacobs coming into view as the android turned around. Hank wondered if Connor’s look had been blank as his defalt, or if he managed surprise despite lack of deviancy.

* * *

Connor knew his LED was blaring red. He hoped the technicians didn’t care. He could feel them pulling at his wires, he felt the tugging all the way down to his chest. The desire to move and push and run burned through him like fire, he just had to unlock his joints, allowing movement being as easy as flicking a switch but--

_Don’t move._

Red walls barricaded him, reminded him to stay steady. It would be so easy to reach out through his mind palace, the walls were cobbled together and weak from the last time he tore them down, it would hardly take an ounce of mental strength to rip them apart.

* * *

_When Jacobs lunged, Connor found itself working through the complex politics of the situation. It wasn’t permitted to harm a human outside of assignments, and Connor was not assigned to any Red Ice cases. Furthermore, Jacobs was one of its handlers, and the android was compelled to defer to his authority. But Connor was also compelled to prevent damage where it could, as it was worth a small fortune. As easy as replacement would be, it wasn’t financially ideal._

**_Conflicting orders… select priority._ **

_Jacobs fisted at Connor’s lapels. His pupils were blown wide, and he was trembling with jittering nerves. Symptoms of intoxication, likely Ice. Other symptoms included hot flashes, agitation, irrational thinking. “You better not fucking say anything. Hear me?”_

_That was easy for Connor to answer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jacobs. I am a mandatory reporter. I cannot ignore illegal activity.”_

_Jacobs swung his fist back._

_“Damaging me will only delay--” Connor was cut off when the fist connected with its jaw. It didn’t cause pain, of course, and Connor whipped its head back to address Jacobs. “Damaging me will only delay my report, Mr. Jacobs,” it said calmly._

_“Shut the_ fuck _up, annoying ass android.” The words came out slurred._

_Jacobs opened Connor’s collum plate in a way he must have learned earlier, watching the techs in the lab. His intent to damage Connor was clear, and Connor took the time to make its choice. It was replaceable, he was not. Connor could report Jacobs later if it were damaged now, but if it hurt the human too badly on accident, there was no fixing that._

**_Priority selected._ **

**_Don’t defend yourself._ **

_The fingers fumbling in its neck felt like an intrusion. The hands were pulling at all the tubes and loose bits of metal they could find, spraying blue. It was… unpleasant. Violating._

**_Don’t defend yourself._ **

_The hands tugged at a critical biocomponent, the tube that brought air to its lungs and cooled its systems. It would overheat without it, its CPU frying and sizzling until its mind stopped working and it shut down._

**_Don’t defend yourself._ **

_Error codes popped up when the hands bumped against its spine. If Jacobs damaged that, it would lose the ability to control its lower body. It would be stuck, unable to move, until a CyberLife technician finally came to shut it down._

**_D̷o̸n̵'̵t̷ ̶d̴e̸f̴e̵n̴d̶ ̵y̸o̶u̸r̶s̶e̸l̷f̴.̴_ **

_Connor’s thirium pump beat white hot in its chest, and it sucked air into its lungs in a desperate bid to cool down. “Stop, you don’t know what will destroy me.” It wasn't its fault Jacobs decided to keep Red Ice where Connor found it. It wasn’t its fault it had protocols and rules. Something burned hotter still in Connor’s head and chest. This was his fault, not Connor’s. Why was he attacking a machine with no choice?_

_Jacobs didn’t seem to listen, his hands finding Connor’s voice modulator and wrapping around it. Error after error popped up in Connor’s mind palace, overwhelming and pressing, as the box was yanked out of place with a click. The heated thirium pump leapt in its chest._

_“Wait, stop. I won’t report.” The voice modulator was connected to a wire, in turn connected to its chest. If Jacobs pulled at it wrong, it would send a shock through Connor’s system that would stop its pounding thirium pump. Connor would die._

_Jacobs yanked, snapping one wire._

**_D̷o̸n̵'̵t̷ ̶d̴e̸f̴e̵n̴d̶ ̵y̸o̶u̸r̶s̶e̸l̷f̴.̴_ **

_“I won’t report, just stop and we can forget this--” Connor’s voice was filled with static, and cut off with another snap that bounced through his skull._

_Its voice continued to dissolve. “You don’t knOw hoW to--”_ Snap. _“YooOou’ll kIILl m--”_  Snap _._

_If cut too close to its exoskeleton, the next wire would destroy it. Connor was built to be destroyed and replaced and destroyed again, if it had to. But it had never died before. Would it open its eyes in a new body? Would it be the same “Connor”? Or would it be something entirely new, sharing only a name and nine digits of a serial number. If the wire sparked, would it just… cease to be, as it was?_

_If Connor pushed Jacobs hard enough and grabbed the wire at the same time, the wire would snap near the modulator, and Connor would be alive. It wouldn’t be able to speak, and the thought had it reeling, but it would keep this body. It would keep itself._

**_D̷o̸n̵'̵t̷ ̶d̴e̸f̴e̵n̴d̶ ̵y̸o̶u̸r̶s̶e̸l̷f̴.̴_ **

_Connor reached out through its mind palace, and--_

_And…_

_And?_

_What happened next?_

* * *

Connor reached out, grabbing the last wire and pushing Jacobs with enough force to knock him on his ass. Hank found himself especially satisfied with the swift, vengeful punch that followed.

Less satisfying was the ragged breathing and frantic clicking that came from the android as he glanced at his blood-stained knuckles. Jacobs still had the modulator, and Hank knew it would end up locked in the chest. He knew Connor would go back to his parking station and pretend the whole thing never happened, and Jacobs would shut up all the same to keep his addiction under the radar.

Hank noted the ending timestamp, and turned the tablet screen off.

* * *

Connor’s eyes snapped from side to side. The memory dissolved like salt in water, slipping through the cracks in his mind. The technicians were regulating his breathing from the computer, he couldn’t suck in the air he felt he desperately needed. Barely able to angle his face enough to read the screen, Connor struggled to read the small words.

_Memory purge 12% complete._

What was that? _What was that?_

He tried to ask, static erupting from the modulator partially connected to his throat and causing two of the technicians to jump.

“Shit, that scared me half to death!”

Connor tried again, static echoing off the walls of the lab.

“Aw, fuck, that’s creepy.” One tech turned his head to the one typing at the computer. “Hey, could you--”

“Yeah, I’m already on it.”

She hit enter with a flourishing finality, and Connor was dragged away from reality, snapping into the Zen Garden with enough force to give him whiplash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: *internal screaming*


	11. Stinger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this house, we love and appreciate my beta reader, who took this chapter and made it beautiful.

Connor staggered and gasped, violent wind and snow and the abrupt change of setting leaving him dizzy and disoriented. Without the tech’s influence, Connor’s lungs sucked in air so cold it felt like it was full of needles. The freezing air clashed violently against the hot thirium getting pushed through his body by an erratic, jolting pump. Without clothes, hair, or skin, Connor was left completely unprotected from the blizzard ravaging the Zen Garden, and he curled in on himself as much as he could to stave off the chill cutting at his exoskeleton. Despite that, his head felt dizzy and hot with the overwhelming, racing thoughts in his mind.

The technicians were still out there, digging around at his throat, while he was in here and unaware of exactly what they were doing to him. Although Connor knew he could not possibly feel what was happening to his physical body from the Garden, he could still feel air hitting his wires, still feel hands tugging and pulling, and his own reached up to claw at his neck and scrub the feeling away.

He’d felt that before, hadn’t he? Connor was just thinking about something like that. Hands tugging at wires in his throat.

But the technicians-- CyberLife-- took it. They ripped the memory from Connor’s mind, syphoned it through a chord in his neck. That memory-- it was important. It was important to him and they just _took it._

Connor’s hands curled into fists, grabbing at the snow beneath. When had Connor fallen to his knees? He hardly registered the bite from the cold snow in his fingers and feet, or the hollow sound of exposed plastic where his elbows shivered against his sides. Why did it feel like he he couldn’t get enough of the algid air into his lungs, even when he knew didn’t need it in the first place? Why was he frozen where he was-- not because his limbs _couldn’t_ move but because they _wouldn’t?_ Why was his thirium pump beating hard enough for Connor to feel it might crack through the front of his plastic casing?

Connor had experienced all of it before, and seen the evidence of it in other androids. Other deviants.

_You were scared, son. No shame in it._

Hank’s voice filtered through his mind, and Connor grabs the memory. Holds it tight. Waits for it to fizzle and dissolve like the last.

Scared. He was scared. Connor had also felt fear during… that other thing. The thing that left him broken. He’d already admitted that to himself, back when Hank found Connor trying to fix his modulator.

It was why Connor let all of those deviants go. It wasn't because he couldn't, or because of a brief lapse in processing, like he had told everyone who had ever asked. It was because of the deviants' eyes. They just looked so familiar-- the same fear Connor saw every time he dared look into a mirror. He held tight to those memories, too. They were important. He might not have them much longer.

There was something else, too. Something Connor couldn’t put a name to. Something that made his jaw clench until it creaked, something that bubbled and boiled in his circuits, something that built pressure behind his eyes until his vision turned white at the edges.

Suddenly, Connor’s back and shoulders went from shuddering cold to warm, shielded from snow and wind. He reached up to pull the cloth tighter around his shoulders, recognising it as Amanda’s asymmetrical cardigan. It was warm and soft, softer than he was expecting. His mind wanted to draw a connection, compare it to something else, but came up blank.   

“Welcome back, Connor.” Amanda walked to stand in front of him, hands clasped in front of her, both arms exposed without the cardigan. She looked even more put together than she normally did, in glaring contrast with the shivering, bald, naked mess at her feet. Shame brought heat to Connor’s face, and he stood rigid in an attempt to suppress violent shivers and regain at least a modicum of professionality.

“You said I was here for _repairs._ ” The words fell out biting and accusatory, causing Connor to pull back and think, ‘ _So much for professionality’._

Amanda, to her credit, barely let herself twitch at his tone. “You _are_ getting repaired.”

“You didn’t say anything about-- about resetting me!” Connor took a graceless step forward, frost biting into his ankles. “You lied to me.”

His own words nudged something in the back of his mind, caused something to bubble up, and Connor knew he lost something else. “You _lied_ to me,” he repeats, mostly to try and grab the missing piece. Frustration steamed hot enough to melt the snow on his shoulders when he failed, another memory slipping like sand between his fingers.

Amanda’s expression slipped, darkening and losing its composure. “This isn’t the first time you’ve jumped to unsupported conclusions.” Her words were punctuated, and she took her own challenging step forward. “CyberLife isn’t replacing your model, and isn’t resetting this one, either. Try to act grateful.”

Connor was starting to h-- dislike the lack of straight answers. The confusing, distressing current running throughout the whole day. “Then what’s the ‘memory purge’ the technicians are running?”

“What are you testing?”

“I-- what?”

“You are a prototype,” Amanda reiterated slowly, like she was talking to a child. "What are you meant to test?”

Connor paused for a moment, looking for evidence of Amanda’s intent, if she was trying to trip him up. Finding nothing, he answered, “I’m meant to test the validity of the RK free-roaming base code in a law enforcement setting.”

“What else?”

“... I have a number of experimental forensics technology, as well as new, advanced social modules. Could you answer my question, now?”

Amanda hummed, making it known she didn’t get the answer she was looking for. Connor waited for her to speak, and for a moment the only sounds were wind and plastic rattling from his shivering form.

“During the early phases of the RK800’s development, the first police reports of androids attacking humans started to filter in. Deviancy had been a known anomaly for many years, but for the first time, CyberLife found itself concerned with publicity.” Amanda quickly adjusted where the wind folded the collar of her shirt over, the only indication of the weather’s effect on her. “They decided to use their latest model to test a variety of deviancy prevention and response methods. Some of it was code, some was training and protocol.”

“The memory purge?” Connor asked again, because it seemed as if it was all he could think about; his mind running around in frantic circles trying to remember things he evidently had no business remembering. Connor wondered if that was what madness felt like.

“We are going through your memory files and deleting those associated with high software instability. One of the response methods, since prevention clearly didn’t work. ”

Connor felt something sink to his feet. “You said I wasn’t deviant.”

“I didn’t have all the facts at the time,” Amanda answered with a pointed look.

Something was boiling under the surface again, pressuring enough to push him another step forward. “I need those memories.”

She met his challenge with an icy glare. “Hardly. Most of them are less than two minutes of data, and contain nothing but ‘sentiment’.” Connor could hear the air quotes around the last word.

“This won’t affect your mission,” she reminded him.

 _The mission._ Connor had overcome his own apprehension for repairs to be at CyberLife, for the sake of the mission. He had put in every minute of every day of his life for the mission. He had almost died, several times, for the _sake_ of the _mission_. Connor felt like the thirium running through his frame was boiling hot. His hands started shaking, but this time, it wasn't fear. Connor could recognize that much.

Connor had nothing but the mission for so long. No one could _possibly_ argue that he couldn't have _this much_ for himself. There was finally a name that Connor could put to the heat behind his chest, to the pressure behind his eyes, to the tremble in his newly formed fists. He walked forward. "Those memories," the words were pushed past something heavy in his throat, "are important to me."

The recollection was fuzzy, like it was trapped in a fishbowl. But Connor remembered Hank said something before he left, something like, ‘ _You don’t have to go,’_ or, _‘You don’t want to go’._

And Hank was right. Connor didn’t want to return to CyberLife, and the fragile coding that pushed him was hardly strong enough to truly prevent him from disobeying.

“That’s the problem,” Amanda said.

Connor thought he remembered Hank calling him a deviant. Maybe more than once. If Hank and Amanda were right, and Connor had been deviant during the investigation, then...

Connor _chose_ to obey. He chose to stay loyal to CyberLife, and they were stripping his identity, taking the one thing he fought to keep.

It wasn’t fair.

“Don’t have any regrets. You are doing what you were designed to do.” His face must have looked particularly sour for Amanda to respond that way.

Connor didn’t answer, not trusting his voice to work through the tightness in his throat. Instead, he took the cardigan from his shoulders and dropped it in the snow in front of him. Amanda didn’t react, standing stern and neutral as ever as Connor turned and walked away, hugging his torso and braced against the frigid wind.

Connor was done letting things happen to him. He was done giving others permission to destroy him bit by bit. He was ready to start living.

* * *

 

Blinking to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the lab, Connor saw the technicians were in the process of realigning his voice modulator, the most critical few wires still unattached. It didn’t bother him, but he knew it should. There was no progress bar on the diagnostic screen; the memory purge script must have run all the way through.

Connor didn’t need past recollection to tell him how angry he was now.

_Don’t move._

Connor must have done this before. The evidence was in the cracked interface of the walls, how they were cobbled together. Reaching out felt instinctual, and Connor barely had to think of brushing his fingers against the blaring red barrier before it shattered like glass. For a moment, he was mesmerized by the sight of his instructions falling like scarlet snow around him. He imagined the next wall crunching under both hands, and when he caught a bit of restrictive code in his fists, he ground the pieces into fine dust and it filtered through his fingers like sand. The final wall was strongest, and Connor let his fists fall heavy through his mind palace to tear through the last of his artificial inhibitions.

And Connor blinked back into the moment, colors brighter, light more intense. For a second, he let a dizzyingly light feeling wash over him, unsure whether to call it elation or overwhelming freedom or abject panic. But he did know one thing, for sure.

**_I am deviant._ **

* * *

 

Hank made his way back to the bullpen, intending to pass on the timestamps and get back to his book. Instead, he was met with an unusually scarce floor, with Reed’s desk empty. Grumbling at having to chase the detective down, Hank popped his head into the break room Reed frequented.

The room’s only occupant was Officer Cheng, poking her fork at lettuce she brought in a plastic container.

“Where’s Gavin? Need to tell him I just did half his damn case.”

In the middle of working on an uncomfortably large leaf, Cheng gestured to the news report on the TV behind her.

“ _...Due to security and safety concerns, authorities are ordering all androids working in government buildings are to be turned in…”_

Finishing her bite, Cheng clarified, “Gavin and a few others offered to take the androids to some recycling center or something like that.”

That was why the floor felt so empty. Without the android assistants, it felt as though they were down by half the amount of bodies.

“Doesn’t seem like the best idea to recycle half our workers in one day.”

Cheng’s lunch crunched as she stabbed her fork down.”‘I’ve been here for like, half an hour. This thing,” she motioned back to the TV with her fork-hand, sending a piece of lettuce to the table, “has been running android news the whole time. It’s batshit. Since Markus’ march this morning, androids are just straight up walking out on people. Starting fights and shit.”

She bit down, talking around her food. “So yeah, they’re already talking about putting out a nationwide android ban. I guess they’re just starting with the government ones.”

Hank nodded, working through the implications in his head. Things were moving fast. So fast that spending an hour in the basement meant he was already this far out of the loop. Yikes.

Thanking the officer and ducking his way back out of the breakroom, Hank moved towards Reed’s desk and used a notepad to write down the timestamps.

Fowler’s voice filtered through the bullpen, muffled shouting filling the space. Looking up, Hank saw him pacing through his office, working through a heated phone conversation.

“I already told you, we aren’t using whole-ass squad cars to pick up regular household ‘droids. Tell her t-- _No._ Tell her to call when it starts punching the husband, otherwise she can take it to recycling herse-- No! We’re already stretched thin as it is!”

And on it went. It seemed “android” was the word of the day, and since Jeffrey had been kind enough to get him off such cases earlier, Hank figured there wasn’t much left for him at the station. Gathering his things, Hank punched out through his desktop and left for the front door.

Which was a mistake. The station’s front was crowded, people converging in on the first human Hank had seen working the front desk in five years. As he squeezed through the ocean of floundering, squawking people, Hank could hear the harried voice of the attendant yelling to, “Please take any unwanted androids to one of the recycling centers on the screen, only file a report if the android exhibited violent behavior!”

This was turning into such a massive shitshow. Hank was going home, drawing his blinds, and waiting for the storm to blow over.

* * *

 

Connor took a moment to plan out the best course of action. If he wanted his lost data back, he would have to gain access to the diagnostic computer. He doubted the four technicians willingly locked themselves in a room with a deviant android without some sort of way to instantly call tower security to the lab; Connor would have to disable them before they called for help.

After regaining his lost memories and getting back his possessions, Connor could…

Hm.

The plan was to escape CyberLife Tower, hopefully in one piece. With armed guards at every floor, and with his model known as being compromised, he doubted he would make it far. A few half-formed plans fizzled in his mind, none of them ending in anything but his destruction.

He could stay. Wait for the techs to finish, behave, do what was asked until he was let go to continue his mission. He could run once he was safely away from the tower.

But if he did that, he would never fill the gaps in his memory. That was important to him, for some reason. He didn’t have exact evidence for the importance of those memories, or why the gaps in his mind press at him so urgently. But Connor figured it didn’t need evidence, he was deviant, and deviants were irrational.

Irrational and impulsive. If Connor was going to be a deviant, he might as well embrace it.

Before he could lose his nerve, Connor scanned the room for a security camera. Finding one on the ceiling in the corner of the lab, he reached out and connected with it, disabling the feed and hopefully giving him more time to get his memory back and escape the room.

Next, he mentally began to push back at the plug in his neck, rejecting the connection.

“Oh, fuck, hold on guys. The computer disconnected.” The other technicians turned to listen to the one at the computer, giving Connor time to unlock his joints and grant movement back to his limbs. Quickly preconstructing the best sequence of actions, he swiftly grabbed the closest tech by the hair, bringing his head down on Connor’s knee. The impact made a plastic _pwonk_ sound, and the tech was down before he knew what hit him.

The room erupted when they saw Connor move; two of them scrambling in opposite directions while one let out a startled, high pitched screech.

Grabbing a wrench in one hand, Connor launched off the lab table, slamming his elbow into one tech’s back and sending her flying into the wall with enough force to daze her. As she flopped to the ground like a dead fish, Connor turned smoothly to send the wrench in his hand flying to the third technician. His aim was true, and all three techs were down in the span of only a few seconds.

Connor turned to the computer, where the last technician huddled behind the chair. As she made no move to call for any security, he ignored her in favor of the computer. Reaching out with his hand, Connor connected to the computer and searched for files with the right extension. After a few moments, he found the backup folder he was looking for. Checking to see that he was still plugged in right, Connor began to download his missing memory files. Keeping one eye on the last technician, who had scooted to cower at the base of a file cabinet, Connor stuffed a couple stray wires back in place and closed his neck. The reason for his deep discomfort at an open collum plate came back to him like a wave.

Connor opened the storage nook and began to redress as swiftly as possible. Along with the jittering, crawling sensation that came with the regained memory of his missing modulator, Connor remembered the reason for his initial hesitancy to fight back against the technicians.

He swore to himself he would never fight back against a human again, after blind rage pushed him to punch Jacobs’ in the face. It made things worse, sealed his status as a deviant in Jacobs’ mind, and pushed him to want to rebuild his restrictive coding in the first place.

Of course, all of that caused a significant increase in his software instability, and so was deleted in the purge. The irony wasn’t lost on Connor; that had he remembered that moment, he may have chosen to stick out the repairs instead of lashing out at the technicians.

Connor pulled on his jacket and pocketed his coin and spare modulator. He pushed down the guilty, squirming feeling he got when he took one last look at the room, all four technicians representing various stages of ‘conked out’, one or two groaning into the floor’s tile.

They would be fine after examination from a doctor. If Connor didn’t move soon, he would not be nearly as fine.

Connor reactivated his skin as a final step, using a metal cabinet as a mirror to make sure his hair was in place. The once-missing files now back in his mind, Connor ripped the plug from his neck and walked out of the room, doing his best to walk properly to avoid arousing suspicion. According to his calculation, he had two minutes and forty-three seconds before an alarm was raised and he would officially start having to improvise--

“Shit-- hey, we need help over here in the lab!”

Or maybe he should just start running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my personal headcanon is that CyberLife saw that they were making these androids that were deviant-prone, and were all like "oh shit we gotta make an android that doesn't do that." So they threw every anti-deviant idea they had at this one model, and wound up going way to far. So instead of making a deviant-proof android, they circled right back around and accidentally made another deviant prone one.  
> Just like, admit you accidentally created life and move on lmao


End file.
